Hitched
by Shezzly
Summary: Harry and Ginny are getting married, but it's not quite as simple as they imagine! HG and RHG, as always. Expect fluff, Fred's dilemma, Ron's rival, a mother's interference and unexpected gifts. Sequel to Aftermath.
1. Reuniting

A/N: My God, I'm mad. 'I'm going to England, I have to take a break from fanfic-ing', I say. The next thing you know, I'm crawling right back again. I've gotten used to writing so frequently, and now find it difficult to stop. Maybe this is addictive. Oh well, I suppose writing's therapeutic, even if I _am _addicted. Could help me relax. So here's the promised sequel to _Aftermath_. It really doesn't have much connection to _Beyond What Came Before_, which operates in a fairly different world (ie. different confrontation with Voldemort, different timelines for relationships, _very _different Malfoy, etc). This is actually based upon the idea somebody offered up at _Aftermath's _conclusion, about the joys and troubles of a wizard wedding. Updates will very likely be even morehere and there than _BWCB, _but I wrote this and just thought I'd get it out. As always, I'll do my best not to keep you waiting. We'll see how it goes. ~no more 3x5s~ Shez XXOO

~

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Harry Potter. Characters and settings associated with the Harry Potter world featuring in this, and all future chapters, belong to J. K. Rowling et. al. 

~

I can tell you this much  
I will marry just once  
And if it doesn't work out  
I'll give her half of my stuff  
It's fine with me  
We said eternity  
I will go to my grave  
With the life that I gave  
Not just a melody line   
On the radio wave  
It dissipates  
It soon evaporates  
But home life doesn't change

            "Home Life", John Mayer

~

Harry Potter woke early on his last working day for the year, feeling cold and bleary-eyed. He lay still for a few moments, wondering why he was awake, and then felt a freezing draught slide through his bed-sheets, and knew. Somebody had opened the bloody door, probably Peeves, and that meant he'd have to get up and shut it. 

And if he had to get up and shut it, then once he got back under the covers, he'd very likely toss and turn for an hour, unable to sleep but unwilling to give up precious hours in bed. 

_I might as well get up now_, he thought groggily and, with an effort, swung his feet out and onto the floor. Now that he was awake, the breeze was quite pleasant, and he sat for a moment, enjoying it and running through the plan for the day ahead. 

Breakfast. Senior graduation and luncheon. Final assembly. 

And that's when he remembered. Ginny was coming home today. 

A grin spread over his face, unbidden, and he threw himself back onto his bed. 

After she completed her years at Hogwarts, Ginny had received several offers (despite her stubborn, Fred-and-George-like refusal to put much emphasis on study). The two of them had discussed it over the summer, in the Weasleys' house, and Harry had felt his stomach curl up whenever he thought about her going away. This must have been what it was like for her when he'd considered Allenhall University, and he tried to put on a brave face, as she had. 

In the end, it was like the stars aligned, and things were sorted out. At the last minute she was offered a place on the Birmingham Quidditch team, and a position at Hogwarts as Assistant to Madame Hooch. Both were part-time. The school was happy enough to allow her some leeway for her Quidditch, and the team only needed her for touring every other month, so she accepted both. 

The relief Harry had felt was pretty much indescribable. He couldn't imagine an entire year without her – and he had a feeling McGonagall had been perfectly aware of this, and perhaps even orchestrated the Hogwarts placement accordingly. He'd never get her to admit to it, but McGonagall was a romantic at heart. 

They were separately quartered, of course, but more often than not spent the night together. Ginny hated the tiptoeing around, especially as they were supposed to be engaged, but the 'no fraternising' rule applied to staff as much as students, and neither of them could afford to be dismissed. Harry wasn't sure that the issue had even come up before – there weren't any married teachers at Hogwarts. 

She'd been away for a month touring Wales and, as always, he'd felt distinctly odd and miserable without her. His bed was suddenly too big, his classes were longer than usual, and he had trouble getting to sleep. 

_This is what it's like to love someone_, his inner monologue would point out, but it didn't make him feel much better. 

And today she was coming back to Hogwarts, and then they'd have a whole summer to spend in London together, in Harry's flat. And then, if all went well, the wedding. 

Before he could dive too deeply into fantasies of lying in all day with his fiancée, there was a knock on Harry's door, still ajar, and Malfoy pushed it open. He was wearing boxer shorts and an infuriated expression. He had a towel over one arm.

"Sorry Potter," he said shortly, when he saw that Harry was awake, and not sounding very sorry at all. "My shower's on the blink again."

"Go ahead."

Malfoy had already gone ahead, and was shutting the bathroom door. 

"I keep asking somebody to fix it," he called as he was changing. "But they either don't turn up, or it only _stays _fixed for a day or two, and then –"

He turned the water on and Harry couldn't hear him anymore. He replied anyway. 

"I know, you told me. Don't worry about it."

He couldn't really do anything until the Slytherin was out of his bathroom, so wandered about his room for a while, picking things up and putting them down again. When Malfoy _did _emerge, he was trying to decide which robes to wear, and jumped when the blonde man spoke.

"Special day, is it?"

Harry turned, and Malfoy's expression was wry. He was drying his hair with Harry's hand towel – and not for the first time these past couple of years. 

"Er – no," Harry said innocently, but couldn't stop a faint blush. 

"So you're not agonising over your robes for any particular reason?"

"I'm not agonising."

Now Malfoy had broken into a grin. 

"How long's it been since you had a shag?"

"Shut it," he mumbled, and threw the robe he'd been holding at his head. Malfoy caught it deftly and went on grinning. 

"Four weeks is it?"

"Malfoy."

"Four and a half?"

"What about you, maybe fifty?"

"More like one."

"Right."

"It's true. I met Celeste in Hogsmeade."

"No you bloody didn't. And give me back my towel."

Malfoy threw both the towel and the robe. Harry caught the first, and the other slapped him in the chest and dropped to the ground. He grabbed it and then marched past Malfoy to his bathroom, calling over his shoulder. 

"Out, you prat."

Malfoy left without bothering to say goodbye. That was a pretty frequent occurrence too. It was sort of reassuring actually, that some things could stay the same. Malfoy was as snide and proud as ever, if slightly mellowed since high school, and could shit Harry up the wall some days, and others make him laugh. It was strange, really. Where once Ron and Hermione had been his constants, Malfoy and Ginny now played that part in his life.

If you'd told him that in sixth year, or even seventh, he wouldn't have believed it. 

That wasn't to say that Ron and Hermione _didn't _play a part in his life – quite the contrary. He was pretty sure they'd always play a part. He thought about them after his shower, as he was drying off. As far as he could tell, the two were still trundling along, lurching from argument to snogging to God-knows-what, and loving each other so hard that it almost gave Harry a nosebleed. There was no news of an engagement yet, even after Harry and Ginny's announcement – in fact, Harry had the distinct feeling that they were far too comfortable with things as they were to change just yet. He had regular letters, even from Ron. Hermione's mostly detailed the wonderful advancements being made in medi-witchery, and the stupid or sweet things Ron had said that week. Ron's mostly detailed quidditch, with occasional, familiar references to his girlfriend along the lines of: "… I tried to get Hermione to come to the game, but she said she was too busy with her autopsy. Well, _sod _the autopsy I say. He's dead, isn't he? He'll wait. Anyway, our Seeker's marvellous …" And so it went on.

He sometimes wondered what it would have been like to be at university with them. 

Mostly he wondered how he could ever have doubted that this teaching business was for him.

Harry checked his watch. Its single hand pointed to: "Get thee gone." Ginny had given it to him for Christmas, and it used to be her grandfather's, so the terminology was rather archaic, but at least he knew when he was late. 

He was late. 

He ran two hands through his hair, pulled on his robes, and then went down the corridor at a not-very-dignified half-run.

~

He arrived late to the staff table, and received a disapproving glance from McGonagall as reward. None of the other teachers bothered – it was the last day, after all. They could afford to be a bit lax. 

"Right there?" Malfoy muttered. He was in the seat next to Harry, and was already halfway through his food. 

"Fine."

"Didn't get distracted or anything?"

"Took too long in the shower."

"Ah. Had things to do in there, did you?"

Harry shot him a loaded look, and Malfoy held up a hand. 

"Alright, alright. Where is she?"

Harry shovelled food into his mouth and spoke when it was full. "Don' know. She's usually here before breakfas'."

"How lovely. Chewed eggs," Malfoy said disdainfully, and Harry rolled his eyes and swallowed. 

"I said, she's usually here before breakfast. Maybe the bus is late."

"Oh, she's coming by Knight Bus again?"

"I think so. She doesn't like it much, but –"

He stopped abruptly. His eyes had just flickered over the room, and found a figure hovering in the Great Hall doorway. She ducked out of sight again as he tried to focus, but he did catch a flip of red hair. 

"What?" asked Malfoy, blinking in the direction of his gaze, but Harry wasn't listening.

"Excuse me," he said, and pushed back his chair. 

He had to slide behind five staff members to get out, and most made noises of discomfort. He apologised automatically ("Sorry. Sorry there. Sorry.") and stepped off the platform in such a rush that he almost tripped. He didn't even mind Malfoy's audible snort, and simply ignored him as he made his way across the room, skirting the tables and staying close to the wall. 

In the entryway, he couldn't see her at first and spun around in a circle. It was on his second rotation that he spotted her, just outside the main doors and kicking the flagstones. His heart gave a funny jolt and he went forward quietly, watching her. She scratched her nose and then put a hand on her hip and sighed, completely oblivious, completely herself. He loved seeing her when other people weren't around, and when she didn't know he was looking.

Just as he reached the doorway, she heard him and turned her head. There was a brief pause as he smiled, and she smiled, and then she suppressed a squeal and threw herself at him, putting her arms around his neck. He lifted her up, and her legs went around his waist. She was light – not delicate, but slender, athletic – and he held her for some time, a head on her shoulder. She smelt so good. He'd missed that. 

"I missed you," he murmured, and she nudged his face with his shoulder. He lifted it and she kissed him, still smiling, so that his lips touched her teeth. 

"I missed you," she said against his mouth. "It's been ages since I was away so long."

"I know. Don't do it again."

"No promises, Potter."

"Oh really?" he said, and tickled her briefly. She wriggled and dropped her feet to the floor, laughing, before leaning her head against his chest. 

"You feel nice," she said softly. 

_So do you_, said inner monologue, very fervently, and he began to feel a bit hot beneath his robes. He shushed his thoughts as best he could, but then she kissed him again, and her lips travelled down his cheekbone and his chin, and onto his neck, her fingers twisted in his hair. 

"I missed _that_," he admitted and she stopped kissing so that she could laugh again. 

"I can tell."

Harry pulled away from her, just slightly. Best not to get too excited just yet. He cleared his throat. Then she tucked her hair behind her ear, and he had to clear it again.

"Why didn't you come in?"

"Into the Great Hall?" She made a face. "Everyone's in the middle of eating, and I didn't want them to stare."

"Right."

"But it's last day, isn't it?"

"Yeah. Thank Merlin."

She moved to lean on the same side of the doorframe as him, and slipped her hand into his.

"Why? Has it been awful?"

"Awful? No. You mean work? No, that's fine. I mean – you and me."

"Oh," she said, smiling a bit. "Well, that's not awful is it?"

"No, no," he said hurriedly. "I just meant – you know, all the sneaking around. And we haven't really had ourselves to ourselves since, what, Christmas?"

"Mm. Christmas was good."

"Christmas was _great_," he corrected her. They'd spent Christmas Eve at the Weasley's, and then much of the next few days in bed, or wandering Diagon Alley only to, well, return to bed. It had been the best holiday of Harry's life, and had reminded him enough of their very _first_ stay in London that he felt pleasantly nostalgic the while. 

"So," he continued, a bit awkwardly, "I was just thinking – well, it'll be good to have some privacy, won't it?"

"Privacy," she repeated, and then sighed. "Harry, there's something –"

A sharp bell sounded, and first- to sixth-year students began to pour out of the Great Hall. Harry groaned inwardly. The graduation ceremony. He didn't have a part to play, but feeling Ginny beside him was enough to make him want to abandon a Quidditch final, let alone a school function. 

"What?" she asked, and he shook his head. 

"Graduation."

"Oh. I forgot."

"I'd better go." He kissed her temple, but then found he couldn't move. "Bugger," he muttered, and she gave him a 'what can you do?' half-smile.

"Go on," she said then, firmly, reminding him of both her mother and Hermione. "You have to."

"I have to," he agreed. 

He gave her hand a squeeze, and left before he could change his mind. 

~

When he came out of the ceremony, she wasn't there, and he presumed she'd gone to her quarters, a little place barely bigger than his room under the stairs at the Dursleys', and located right by the Quidditch pitch. She'd left her things there – presumably before she came up to the Great Hall, because she wasn't around. Her broomstick was leaning against her trunk in the open doorway, and he quickly put them in her room and locked the place before he went. She never bothered with things like that. She had too much faith in strangers. 

Harry didn't have much faith in strangers. He didn't have a lot of faith in people generally. Those he trusted, he'd trust with his life. The rest – well, it was a legacy of darker times, when nothing and nobody was exactly as they seemed. 

He shook off those memories and went to his own room instead. 

He could see her inside as soon as he came to it. She was humming a bit and busying about the room, doing – he wasn't sure what. Picking up after him? She had a bad habit of doing that, inherited from her mother, who cleaned like a madwoman. Actually, Ginny tended to start, and then boss him into helping. He supposed it wasn't _such _a bad habit. It kept his room clean, and it was also kind of endearing, watching her fold his clothes. 

"You right there?" he said, coming in and shutting the door again, and she stopped what she was doing to narrow her eyes at him.

"Fine, thanks. Your room's a bloody mess. What have you been doing in here?"

"Moping," he admitted, and her expression softened  a bit. 

"You just want me to clean your room," she said, straightening and crossing her arms over her chest. She still had a pair of his discarded trousers in hand. "Well I'm not your slave, young man, and you can clean it yourself."

"I will," he said, coming closer and taking his pants off her. "Look, I'll do this."

He folded them up, not very well, and then tossed them onto the floor. The folding fell apart immediately and she shook her head. 

"I'll have to train you better."

"You can train me all you want," he said, hands sliding around her waist. He kissed her again, because he couldn't stop himself, and didn't want to, and because she was lovely. She kissed him back, a little harder than she had earlier, and she was pressed up against him and he'd missed that _so _much that he couldn't even tell her, and it felt as though his whole body was throbbing. 

"God," he muttered instead, and moved his hands over her, into her hair and back down again. 

"Do we have time?" she asked, and he nodded. He would have nodded if they'd had five _seconds_, but as it was they'd have nearly an hour's grace before they needed to pack. 

"Good," she said then, and began to fiddle with his trouser button.

~

Afterwards, they lay on his bed, Ginny on top of him and curling a bit of his hair around her finger. She liked his hair, apparently, and Harry wasn't complaining. He just lay where he was, feeling better than he had in a while, and so glad she was there that he decided to tell her.  

"I'm glad you're here," he said. 

"Mm," she replied, and dropped her head so that it lay against his chest. "Me too."

"How'd the Quidditch go? I read in the _Prophet,_ but …"

"Oh, we lost. We tend to do that. But it was fun, and I had a really great game at Carmathenshire."

"You told me. How soon did you catch the Snitch again?"

She eyed him and then tugged his hair lightly. "You're teasing me."

"No," he protested. "I want to know."

"Twenty seconds," she said, and he nodded thoughtfully.

"Right. Twenty." He paused. "You know, that must be the twentieth time you've told me too."

"Harry!" she said, but he was laughing so hard that he couldn't apologise, and then she laughed too, and they rolled around a bit and were, eventually, still. Her back was curved against his front now, her legs tucked up, her hair in his face.

"What did you have to tell me?" he asked after a while, remembering, and she started. 

"Oh! Oh, never mind."

This worried him. Ginny didn't said 'never mind' unless it was something he really _ought _to mind. "What is it?"

"Nothing."

"Gin," he said. "Just tell me."

There was a long silence and then she sighed heavily. "I don't want to."

"Why not?"

"It's not very good news."  
His stomach lurched. 'Not very good news' was not what he wanted to hear. He had the sudden, fairly irrational notion that she was breaking up with him, or going away, and his hands tightened involuntarily around her waist. 

"What is it?" he repeated, and this time she turned on her side that she was facing him, her expression serious. 

"OK. You're going to hate this."

"You can't know till you tell me."

"Oh, you will."

"Gin."

"You will."

"Gin, tell me," he said, through gritted teeth, and when she finally spoke she didn't meet his eye. 

"I told my Mum we'd spend the summer at home," she mumbled. 

A long, long silence now as Harry attempted to digest this. 

No, still wasn't getting through. 

"What?" he said, and her gaze flicked upward. 

"I'm sorry. She cornered me, and she asked, and then she looked like she was going to cry, and the next thing I knew I was telling her we would."

"That we'd spend the summer there?"

"Yes."

"At the Burrow?"

"Mm."

"All summer?"

"Pretty much."

It was his turn to sigh. Not as bad as he'd thought, but not great either. He loved the Weasleys, and he loved the Burrow too. In a lot of ways, the Burrow was home. But the last summer he'd spent there was the one after seventh year, and things with him and Ginny had been complicated by Mrs Weasley's, er, house rules. Sure, they'd managed to bypass them a few times, but the thing with the Burrow was that there was nowhere to really be alone. The summer after – the summer he'd proposed – they'd spent most of their time in London, or at Lupin's holiday house in Ireland (left to Harry in his will), and it had been so great that Harry had been looking forward to a repeat.

"OK," he said finally.

"Really?" she asked. She seemed a bit nervous. "Because I suppose I could tell her no."

"Oh, don't do that. God. She'd have my head."

"She'd probably understand."

"No," Harry said determinedly. "No, we'll go to the Burrow. And – I suppose we can visit London, when we want."

"I'm sorry."

"Stop apologising. I don't mind. I love the Burrow."

She bit her lip, and it made him want to kiss her, but she was speaking again. "I love it too, but that doesn't mean I want to spend all summer there. Mum's just – well, she misses us, I suppose, and everybody. She's a bit lonely. Fleur and Bill are all set up in Paris with Felix, so she doesn't see much of them, and Dad's doing his Acting Minister thing while Madame Redfern recovers, and Charlie's holed up with his dragons, and Fred and George are holed up in their joke-shop, and –"

"Gin. Shut up."

"Shut up?"

"Shut up. We'll have a great summer, and it'll make your mum happy and we'll find somewhere to – you know, and everything will be fine."

"OK," she said on an exhale, and touched her forehead to his. "I'm glad that's over. I was dreading telling you."

"Don't ever dread telling me things," he said, and he meant it. "Tell me everything."

"I'll tell you everything," she said quietly. It sounded like a promise. 

The Burrow for the summer. Well, it wasn't all-day-in-bed-just-the-two-of-us-and-our-own-place-in-London, but the more he thought about it, the more he looked forward to seeing the rolling hills and the little gnarled gnomes and the homey kitchen and Mrs Weasley, who was more his Mum than anyone else, and – 

"I think Ron and 'Mione are coming home, too," she said then.

"Those two? I haven't seen them since – when did we go up?"

"February."

"February, right. Before his birthday."

"So they should be there, Mum said."

Ron and Hermione, too. Now he was really looking forward to it.

"I hope this isn't just some ploy by Mum to get the wedding under her thumb," Ginny said after a while, musingly. 

"Oh – she wouldn't do that," Harry said, but he wasn't so certain. In fact, it sounded like _exactly _the sort of stunt Mrs Weasley would pull. 

"You think?" Ginny said dryly. 

"Don't know." He paused, considering it, and then found he was considering something else. "We're getting married, aren't we?" he said, his voice a little wondering, and she smiled just slightly.

"We're getting married, Harry."

"What an amazing thing."

They smiled some more, and then Harry shook his head a little and stroked her back. 

"I'm sure your Mum will let you organise." 

"Well, I've got most of it in hand, so she can't go wild."

"Most of it in hand, do you?" he said, smirking now, and she poked him. 

"Don't be dirty."

"How can I help it? You're gorgeous."

"Flattery will get you nowhere."

"You're gorgeous," he repeated, and kissed her slowly, and when he pulled away she was rather breathless. 

"Flattery – will get you –" she began to say again, and then he kissed her again, and pretty soon they were doing all the rest of it again, and then they had to pack so fast that Harry was sure he'd forgotten something. 

Going to the Burrow instead of London didn't seem so important anymore. As long as he had her with him, he didn't really mind where they went.


	2. Returning and Conflicting

A/N: Am very pleased with self, because have plotted this all out now (usually I only have the vaguest idea what will happen ahead), and that should make it easier to get the chaps out to you (hehe – sounds like I'm pimping men or something *grin*). ~let's move it along~ Shez … PS – Thank you for your reviews, they're the cheese on my happy crackers, and the Scotty Crowe in my tour-bus. S.

~

Pig was the only one waiting for them at Platform 9 and ¾. He was fluttering about madly, bearing a letter that was probably over half his weight, and hooted when he saw Harry and Ginny step off the train with their luggage. 

"Is that … Pig?" Ginny said, and Harry found that he was smiling too hard to reply. He hadn't seen the little owl since Ron and Hermione departed for Allenhall, but his sounds and movements gave rise to vivid memories of his friends and school years, of riding the _Express, _even of Sirius. Harry, remembering something Ron had trained his owl to do, whistled uncertainly, and sure enough, Pig came swooping at them. Both Seekers managed to get a hold on him, and then grinned at each other. 

"Twenty seconds, hey?" Harry said, and she swatted him before releasing the owl. Harry pulled the letter out of its pouch and handed Pig over to Ginny while he read. 

Harry and Gin 

_Mum went to see Dad, and we can't make it to the station. Can you come home by Floo? _ 

_See you soon,_

_Ron_

The handwriting was wild, barely a scribble, and Ginny frowned at it.

"Looks like he wrote that in a bit of a rush."

"Yeah. Just a bit."

"What's keeping them?"

"Don't know."

"Well, come on, let's find a fireplace."

They headed out into the station, still lugging their bags and broomsticks, Harry managing to give the _Hogwarts Express _a goodbye glance over his shoulder before moving through the barrier. He wouldn't see it again until the summer was over – and things wouldn't be quite the same then.

~

Harry stumbled out of the Burrow's living room fireplace directly into a blazing row. Ron and Hermione were red-faced, Hermione's hair all over the place and getting in her eyes. Ron had his arms folded and wore a thunderous expression, but it was clearly Hermione's turn to shout, because she was in the middle of a furious sentence. Ginny fell into Harry from behind, with a rush of soot, and he would have moved, but he was transfixed. He hadn't seen them argue like this in a long time. 

" – make everything a _competition!_"

"It's not a bloody competition," Ron retorted, "it's him being _after _you!"

"Even if he was, _Ronald_, it's not as though I'd take him up on his offer, is it?"

"Well, how would I know? You seem to like him well enough."

Hermione's mouth fell open and he looked sorry as soon as he'd said it, but his pride quickly overrode apology, and his scowl returned. 

"I can't believe you said that," she gasped. "I don't _believe _you said that! I don't _believe _you _said that, _Ron!"

"What, that you might fancy a bit of Richard? Maybe you're protesting too much, Hermione, if you don't mind my saying."

"I do mind you saying," she shouted, "because it's simply not true! I don't fancy a bit of him, and he doesn't fancy a bit of me and – and you're just a _pig_, Ron Weasley!" 

And with that, she spun on her heel and stormed out. 

Ron opened his mouth as though to respond, but then shut it again. He stared at his feet for some time, and it wasn't until Harry coughed quietly (there was Floo powder in his throat) that he even noticed they were there. He looked up sharply and blinked before registering exactly who he was looking at. 

"Harry!" he said finally. "Gin! Er – sorry – I –" 

"Don't worry about it," they said, in near unison, and Ron looked from one to the other before dropping his head. 

"Sorry," he muttered again, and then took a deep breath and straightened. "Right. Well, you made it." 

"Yeah, we did," said Harry.

"We came by Floo," Ginny added, "since you and 'Mione were – busy."

Harry nudged her, and Ron looked stricken. Harry knew how much he hated fighting with Hermione, how much it set him on edge, but felt fairly helpless in the face of their confrontations. They did things their own way. What could you do but let them sort it out, or change the subject?

In this instance, he chose the latter. 

"So where are we kipping?" Harry said, and Ron came back to himself a little. 

"Mum's got you in the guest room, I think. I'll take your trunk, Gin."

He did so, and Harry and Ginny followed him up the stairs, even as Ginny questioned him in a puzzled sort of voice. 

"Why are we in the guest room? What about mine?"

"Oh – yours?" he asked, rather shiftily, and she frowned at his back.

"Yes, mine, my room."

"Your room – well, it's kind of – being used for other things."

"Other things?" Her voice was ascending slightly in pitch, and Harry would have tried to calm her but his hands were full, and he was concentrating very hard on not falling down the stairs. Ron stopped in the hall, in front of the guest room's open doorway and placed her trunk carefully on the floorboards before speaking again.

"Mum turned your room into a sewing room or something."

Ginny said nothing for several seconds and then shook her head a few times, as though trying to make sense of his words.

"A sewing room?" she repeated disbelievingly. "What about all my stuff?"

"In the attic."

"Ron!"

"Don't look at me," he snapped, "I had nothing to do with it."

"Well, I want my room back!"

"_Well_, talk to Mum then."

"This is fine for now," Harry said, attempting to placate her, but she pushed his hand from her shoulder. 

"No need to be rude, Ron."

"No need to shout at me_, _Ginny!"

"I'm not shouting!"

"Well good, because I've had a bloody earful this afternoon," he said, too loudly, and Harry finally had to cut in before things got out of hand.

"We'll sort it out when your Mum gets home. Nothing we can do now."

For a moment, he felt as though he was speaking to a class of third-years. Both of them were silent, and then Ron sighed, and Ginny tucked her hair behind her ear quietly, and they were both adults again. 

"Sorry," Ron said, rather hopelessly. "It hasn't been a very good day."

"That's alright," she returned. "Doesn't matter."

Ron glanced at Harry and gave him a rueful half-grin. "Good thing you're here, mate." 

Harry shrugged, a bit embarrassedly, and then Ron took a step forward and caught him in a rough bear hug. Harry was surprised at first, but hugged him back, and it was so familiar, like hugging a brother. When they released each other, Harry felt such a pull of gladness to see him again that he didn't quite know what to do with himself. He punched him lightly on the shoulder, and Ron did the same, and Ginny looked away and tried not to smile. 

"Welcome home," Ron said, rather gruffly, and then hugged his little sister too. 

And it did feel like home.

~

Mrs Weasley arrived not long after, and swept Harry and Ginny into a warm embrace as soon as she saw them sitting in the kitchen, eating afternoon tea. She exclaimed over Ginny's hair, which she'd cut to just past shoulder-length, and tut-tutted over Harry's (which was more of a mess than ever), and seemed to be having such a marvellous time mothering again that neither of them had the heart to run off. Harry kind of enjoyed it, even. He'd never really been mothered, but Mrs Weasley was an expert, and while Ginny rolled her eyes, he thought how nice it was to have someone worry about you.

He worried about Ginny. He wondered if she knew that, and decided she probably did. 

Ginny, quite wisely, did not bring up the sewing room issue just yet. No use spoiling the mood, and with Mrs Weasley, it was always better to address these things after a cool-off period. That way, you couldn't get too worked up, an argument was less likely to arise, and the peace, in general, was more likely to be observed. 

'The peace' was a sought-after state in the Weasley house. 

At dinner, it was just the six of them – the four young people, and Ron and Ginny's parents. Mr Weasley arrived home perhaps a half-hour before dinner, tired but satisfied. Hermione had descended the stairs at about dusk, slightly calmer, and given Harry and Ginny enthusiastic greetings. She also pretended that absolutely nothing had happened. She and Ron were rather tense, but maintained a cordial quiet in front of the parents. 

Harry resolved to ask what was wrong (and what on earth this 'Richard' business was about) the following day. He'd rather not get into it tonight. He was enjoying this too much, this sense of family. He'd felt it last time he spent the summer, and at Christmas Eve, but this, this was different. This was him and Ginny, settling in for a few months, and her parents, and Ron and Hermione who were like his brother and sister really, and it felt so warm and comfortable that he could barely keep the grin off his face. 

Ginny put her hand on his knee during dessert. He looked up, and she tilted her head slightly, as if to say 'What is it?'

"What?" he murmured. She squeezed his knee, and it sent a thrill up his spine, and he wondered briefly how she could still do that to him.

"What are you smiling at?"

"Oh – just this. It's nice."

"Nice," she said, glancing about the table, and he put his hand over hers, and squeezed back. 

"Yeah. It's nice."

She looked at him a moment, almost searchingly, and then kissed him on the cheek, so quickly he wasn't even sure it had happened. Her hand fell away, and she went back to her food. 

When he glanced up, Mrs Weasley was eyeing them, and practically glowing.  

The post-dinner activity involved Ron and Hermione clearing the table, and then heading upstairs, presumably to talk out their differences. Hermione had a tendency to talk out most things, anyway. Mr Weasley charmed the dishes for his wife, and then the four of them sat in the living room for approximately fifteen minutes before Arthur fell asleep. 

Mrs Weasley gave an impatient sigh and leant over as though to poke him, but then clearly thought better of it. 

"We'll let him sleep," she said aloud, under her breath, and then gave Harry and Ginny a brief, rather strained smile. "He's awfully tired these days," she admitted. "What with taking on all Madame Redfern's business. He comes home when he can."

"Oh," said Harry. He didn't know what else to say. It was no surprise that she mothered them all. The Burrow, he imagined, would probably be lonely when you were all on your own, although he supposed the twins and everyone dropped in when they could. 

"Mum," Ginny said, after a long pause. "Can I ask about my room?"

Mrs Weasley didn't bat an eyelid. "Of course, dear."

"Well, I just – I wanted to know – did you turn it into a sewing room?"

"Yes, Ginny. Didn't Ron tell you? After you announced your engagement."

Her frankness seemed to throw Ginny off balance, but not for long. When she spoke next, her voice was hard, and Harry groaned inwardly. Was it time for confrontation already?

"Why exactly?"

"I didn't think you'd be needing it anymore."

"But it's my room, Mum. Fred and George still have their room. Ron does."

"But you're getting married, dear."

"Yes, but that doesn't mean I don't need a place here," Ginny pointed out. She was sitting forward in her seat now, meeting her mother's gaze, and Molly looked a little uncomfortable.

"I didn't realise you felt so strongly about it," she said, and Ginny's eyebrows disappeared into her hair. 

"Didn't realise?"

"Gin …" Harry said, _really _not wanting to do this tonight, but Ginny launched on regardless.

"Just because I'm getting married doesn't mean I don't have a past, or don't belong in this family. I mean – bloody hell, Mum, what have you done to it anyway?"

"Nothing," Mrs Weasley said, too quickly, and Ginny stood immediately.

"Can I see?"

Mrs Weasley stood with her, shaking her head. "No. You can't."

"Why not?" Ginny challenged, making her way towards the stairs, and now Harry stood as well.

"Gin," he said again – there wasn't anything that was going to stop her, but he had to say _something. _

"Virginia Weasley," Molly said sharply, following her daughter as she took the stairs two steps at a time. "Virginia, don't you even think about opening that door."

"Why not?" Ginny called back. "What have you done?"

"Ginny!" Mrs Weasley said, her voice a near shriek. "Ginny, don't!"  
But Ginny was at the top floor now, and Harry was behind them both, and his fiancée was pushing open the door. The room lit up, and Ginny – said nothing. Harry couldn't see what she was seeing, because her body in the doorway blocked his view, but he didn't think it was anything good. 

Mrs Weasley gave a short sigh and opened her arms. 

"Well," she said. "There you are. That's what I've been doing."

"Mum," said Ginny faintly, and she moved just enough that Harry managed a glimpse at what was inside. There were bags of scrap material, swathes of fabric … and laid out on a wooden table was a wedding dress, quite old-fashioned, smelling (even from where he stood) of lavender. He only had time to take in the lace at the bodice and long sleeves with puffed shoulders before Ginny began to fume.

"You know I've ordered my dress. You know I want to do this myself."

"I know," Mrs Weasley agreed, but she sounded defiant rather than apologetic. 

"So why are you making me a _wedding dress_, Mum?"

"I'm not making it. It was mine, and my mother's before me. I'm just taking the hem up."

This was not what Ginny wanted to hear, and her eyes went just a bit wide. 

 "Mum! For God's sake! I knew this is why you wanted us here, I _knew _it. Didn't I say, Harry?"

"Er –" Harry began, floundering, but luckily he didn't have to finish. Mrs Weasley interrupted. 

"You're my only daughter, Ginny, and I always hoped my daughter would wear my wedding dress."

"I told you the first time, Mum – I'm sorry, but it looks awful on me. You saw it."

"It doesn't look awful."

"I looked like a polar bear, an ugly one," Ginny said, horrified. "I can't."

Mrs Weasley appeared to be ignoring her. "And you might be the only child of mine who ever _gets _married."

"Oh don't be ridiculous."

"Look at Bill and Fleur! And Fred and Angelina! And Ron and Hermione!" Mrs Weasley pointed out in an indignant rush. "They don't look close, and besides, those girls aren't family, as much as we love them. You could be the only one left to carry on the Weasley tradition."

"Mum …"

"A very importanttradition, that's been upheld for years, and which shouldn't be broken now just because you think …"

"Mum."

"… that you don't look very nice. That's just silly, darling, it's silly, and I won't hear it. Can't you do something to please your mother, just _once_?"

"_Mum._" She said this last so loudly that even Harry jumped. He'd been following the argument like a spectator at a tennis match, and now found his gaze fixed on Ginny. She had a funny expression on her face – a sort of desperate determination.Mrs Weasley fell silent.

"The wedding is in seven weeks," Ginny went on, very slowly. "I've already said we can have it here, like you asked, and I already said that I'm grateful for your help. But this isn't your day, it's ours, and I'll wear exactly what I'm comfortable in. And I'm not comfortable in that dress. I won't wear it. I'm sorry."

The pregnant pause following this calm (quite admirably so, Harry thought) announcement seemed to go on forever. Then, in the end, Mrs Weasley nodded once and her shoulders dropped. 

"Alright," she said simply. "Have it your way."

She went back downstairs. Ginny and Harry stood for some time, and then Ginny exhaled and rubbed her forehead anxiously. 

"I hate it when she does this," she muttered. "Now she'll lay on the guilt, and I'll be a wreck by the end of the week."

Harry came towards her and slipped an arm around her waist. She leant into him, her head against his chest, and he tried to think of something reassuring. 

"Well," he said eventually, "maybe she'll let you have your room back if you do."

Ginny shot him a quick, searching look, and then pinched him when she saw him start to smile. 

"It's not funny," she protested. "I knew it, I told you. Mum means well, but I don't want her to do all this. She does enough."

"I know," Harry said. "I hate watching you fight with her. I never know what to do."  

"I noticed," she said dryly, and he pushed her lightly with his body. 

"You were doing alright on your own, anyway. You don't have to wear the dress, do you?"

"No," she sighed. "I guess not."

"Come on. Let's go to bed."

"Isn't it a bit early?"

"Is it?" he asked innocently, and she gave him another look, before breaking into a smile herself. 

"No," she decided. "Not really."

And soon they weren't thinking about the her mother, or Ron and Hermione's argument, or the dress. 


	3. Back to Picnicking

The next morning, Harry went downstairs to find Hermione in the process of conjuring a picnic basket. She was dressed for the day, and her hair was still wet from her shower. She flashed him a quick smile when he came into the kitchen, and then focussed immediately on her food again. 

Harry waited until she was done before asking any questions.

"Where are you going?" he said, as she eyed her basket with satisfaction. This seemed to surprise her.

"We're going out. Like we used to."

"Picnicking?"

"Yes, picnicking."

"We haven't picnicked since after seventh year," Harry said, a bit blankly, and she faced him with a patient expression.

"Yes, Harry. I know. I thought we'd take up the habit again."

"Oh," he said. "Sorry. It's early."

"That's alright."

"It's a nice idea."

"I know it is. You want to come don't you?"

"Of course," he said indignantly, and he did. He wondered if it would feel the same, but shook off the thought because she was waiting for him to go on. "Of course I do. I left Ginny asleep, but I can wake her up."

"Ron's already up and out," she said, averting her eyes now. Harry had thought they'd sorted themselves and nearly made to ask – she continued before he could. "He's picking a place, I think."

"Does he have his fishing rod?" Harry asked, a bit wryly, wanting her to smile again. She did, if a bit reluctantly. 

"No. I think he lost it."

"Shame. He could have been great."

"Oh yes," she said, pushing loose curls out of her face and rolling her eyes. "Old boots and weeds just tremble when they hear his name."  
They looked at once another for a moment, in a sort of fond recollection, but then Hermione glanced away. _They must have really argued, _Harry thought, as she checked her basket yet again. He resolved, a second time, to get it out of her later. 

"I'm going to fetch Gin," he said.

She nodded. "I'll be here. We'll go on the broomsticks, shall we?"

Upstairs, Ginny was stirring in a half-doze, sun casting itself across her face and making her frown. He stood at the foot of their bed, reluctant, for the moment, to wake her. She looked perfectly content sleeping in. He had almost decided to leave her a note when she opened one eye. 

"Harry?" she said hoarsely, and he moved to sit by her feet. 

"Morning."

"Morning, early bird."

"Want to go out?"

"Where?"

"Picnic with Ron and 'Mione."  
Her slow smile was sleepy and glad, and it made him smile too. He was happy, in the warmest kind of way, and nearly climbed into bed with her again, he was so unwilling for this feeling to disappear. 

"I like your hair that way," he said softly, and she screwed up her nose. 

"Feels a bit weird."

"Looks good."

She sat up and ran a hand through it. Her fingers stuck in a knot halfway, and she pulled at it gently until it ran smooth. 

"OK," she said, and her voice was half-muffled in a yawn. "I'll just change, and we can go."

"Me too," he said, watching her push the covers back, stand, roll each foot around in a half-hearted stretch, and then head over to their as-yet-unpacked trunk to rummage for clothes. She moved like a quidditch player, like she could lift off the ground any minute. That was one thing he missed when she went away – just seeing her wander about. Kicking off her shoes in the evening. The way she touched her hands together when she spoke. Moments like that.  

She turned her head briefly and quizzically, towards him. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing," he said. He hopped up and went to look for his jeans.

~

Harry and Hermione were lying on a rug (another of Hermione's creations) by their old stream. It looked mostly the same. A part of the bank had caved in during the last storms, and there were new saplings, and taller trees, but besides that, it was near unchanged. Ginny was ducking in and out of the stream, urging Ron, who was fiddling with his broom by the water's edge, to join her with teasing calls and the occasional enthusiastic splash. 

Harry shifted slightly to look at Hermione, who had her eyes on the sky. The air felt like summer. 

"So what happened with you and Ron yesterday?" he asked, deciding there was no delicate way to put it. She had apparently been expecting the question, because she did not seem thrown. 

"It was silly," she sighed, sounding both frustrated and helpless. "_He_ was being silly, that is. Such a small thing."

"It's always a small thing," Harry said dryly, and she frowned at him.

"It's not. Don't say that."

"Alright," he said, holding up a hand, even though he disagreed. "It's not. Well – what was the 'small thing'?"

A long silence, and Hermione swallowed. Harry had the sudden sense that maybe it wasn't such a small thing at all, and waited. When she spoke, her words tumbled over each other.

"There's this boy at college – this man, I mean, and Ron doesn't like him. He's nice, really. His name's Richard" (_ah_, said inner monologue) "and he's quite clever and polite and good-looking and all of that. He's in my course. Anyway, Ron doesn't like him, and I know why, I'd be blind not to, but there isn't anything going on. I'm not even – you know, attracted to him, and we had coffee once, but only because he cornered me after class, and why can't I have coffee with him anyway, if he's only my friend? And he _is _only my friend."

She paused for breath and glanced worriedly at Harry, who didn't know what to think.

"Er – he _is_ only your friend, isn't he?" he asked.

"I promise he is, Harry," she said, a bit desperately, and when he looked at her face, he believed it. 

"You don't have to promise. Why don't you just –" He was going to say 'tell that to Ron', but on second thoughts, he didn't think it would get them too far.

"Exactly," Hermione said, as he fell silent. "He just won't listen. And then – God, then Richard owled me yesterday afternoon, saying something about –" She descended into an embarrassed mumble. "About missing me over the break, I don't know, and Ron exploded. He shouted at me."

"He's jealous."

"Well of course he's jealous," Hermione said impatiently, "I know _that. _But I don't know how to make him stop. It's been going on all term. He's making himself miserable for no reason."

"Haven't you two figured it out yet?"

"Oh, we have. Sort of."

"Sort of?"

This alarmed him more than the rest of it. Hermione and Ron might argue pretty frequently, but almost directly afterwards they'd be apologising and kissing each other and saying how stupid they'd been. 'Sort of' didn't sound like that.

"I told him to calm down, and that I don't give two jots about Richard beyond friendship – not even friendship, he's an _acquaintance_ more than anything – and Ron said he was sorry. But I think he's still upset, and I don't know how to fix it." She threw Harry a hopeless glance. "He can't get angry every time I make friends who are men. He must know I don't want to be with them."

"Well – maybe," Harry said. 

"What do you mean, 'maybe'?"

"He loves you, 'Mione, and it makes him crazy sometimes."

"I know," she said, on an exhale. "But I don't go glowering at his girl friends."

"Does he have any girl friends?" Harry asked pointedly. 

"Oh – not exactly," Hermione said, a bit defensive. "That's not what I mean, though. I mean, I wouldn't glower at them if he did_._"

"Right. Well, you won't change him. Not by just telling him he's silly, anyway."

"I know," Hermione said again. "I know that. I _will_ fix it."

"OK."

She turned her head and gave him a half-smile. "Thanks for talking, Harry."

"You didn't seem very happy."

"And you've come a long way," she observed.

"In some things," he said, and shrugged (as best he could lying down). "It's living with bloody Ginny, I think. Girls are all talk-talk-talk."

"Ha-ha," she said, and poked him, before wriggling about to see Ron. Somehow – perhaps in testing the alignment of his broom tips in flight – he'd managed to get the thing lodged in a tree, and he was now swearing furiously, and yanking at it. 

Hermione watched him for a few seconds, and Harry found himself grinning. Some things were never going to change. She seemed to be thinking something similar, because she stood and smiled a small smile.

"I think he needs a hand," she announced, and set off towards him.

A full minute passed before Ginny threw her wet body down in the space Hermione had vacated, spattering him in stream-water.

"Sorry," she said blithely, and patted the side of his face. "It's lovely, why don't you come in?"

"Too sleepy," he said. "And I'm counselling Hermione."  
Ginny looked over her shoulder at Ron and his girlfriend. They'd managed to pull the broom out, and now Ron was speaking to her, and his arms were moving, as though of their own accord, around her waist.

"They seem alright to me," Ginny said, glancing back, and Harry shrugged again.

"There's some guy at college Ron's taken a dislike to. I think they'll sort it out, but you know Hermione – if she doesn't talk about it, she'll go mad."

"True," Ginny conceded, and wriggled closer. Her wet side was pressed against his, and his clothes were damp now, but he didn't complain. She felt too nice. "Isn't it funny," she went on, "how time passes? And how things change and stay the same?"

"What things?"

"Everything. All of us. This place."

"Things aren't all that different, are they?" 

She raised her eyebrows in surprise. "There are lots of things different."

"Like what?" he asked. 

"Ron and Hermione, for a start."

"Ron and Hermione? They're just the same."

"They're still themselves, of course, but they're different."

"'Mione's a little taller, maybe," Harry hazarded, and she shook her head at him. 

"Not those things. She's a woman instead of a girl, you know? Look how she stands. Like – I don't know, like she knows who she is now."

Harry looked, and found, strangely enough (or perhaps not so strangely) that Ginny was right. Her description, in fact, was unsettlingly apt.

"And Ron's grown up. He's calmer, no matter what happened yesterday."

"I wouldn't be so sure …" Harry began, remembering Hermione's words, but Ginny spoke over him.

"I _am _sure. Trust me, I'm his sister. He's different, even if you can't see it all the time. Maybe Hermione's done it to him."

"Hm," Harry said. Ron was the Ron he remembered, as far as he could tell. His hair was shorter and he looked older, but he was still plain Ron. 

Ginny lay back on the rug and watched clouds passing. They were mostly wisps of white and pale grey, and Harry watched them with her. He always had a funny, ageless feeling when he watched clouds, as though he'd seen the sky like this before, and would again one day.

"Do you think that's what's happened to us too?" Harry said eventually, and Ginny paused a moment before replying. 

"Maybe," she said. "It's hard to look at yourself that way, isn't it?"

"You can look at me," Harry suggested, and she smiled and frowned simultaneously.

"No I can't. You practically _are _me."

Harry blinked at her, and felt his heart beat faster. Sometimes she said things, and they made him almost afraid with how much he loved her. He stretched forward and kissed her quickly, and then again, and then they lay still for a while, and she dried in the sun.

~

It was nearing dusk when they got home, and, to Harry's surprise, Fred and George launched out of the living room fireplace just as they arrived. Actually, he shouldn't have been surprised – the twins were always coming out with the unexpected, and popping up in places where they weren't before. The others took it in stride immediately, Ron, Ginny and Hermione offering quick 'hello's as they passed into the kitchen.

"What are you doing here?" Harry asked, when everyone had gone ahead, and Fred's eyes were wild.

"If Angelina comes in, would you please tell her I'm not home?"

"Er – OK," Harry said, blinking at him, and Fred breathed a heavy sigh. 

"Good. Good, thanks."

"I don't see what the dilemma is," George said matter-of-factly. "It's not like you won't eventually."

"Exactly, _eventually_," Fred said, running a hand through his hair. He had soot on his nose, but Harry couldn't tell him, because he was talking too fast. "Not now. I don't want to be cut down in the prime of my life."

"Cut down?" George repeated, and Fred nodded vigorously.

"Cut down. Reinvented. You know – un-bachelorated."

"You're not a bachelor. You've been dating her for four years."

"Dating. _Dating_ is the key verb there."

"D'you mind my asking what you're talking about?" Harry managed to get in, and both twins spun to face him.

"I'd rather not –" Fred began, but George spoke over him.

"Angelina says she wants to get married, and he's in a panic."

"I'm not in a panic," Fred protested. "I just don't want to get married yet, and – OK, yes, I'm in a panic. And I'd appreciate it if we could stop discussing this."

"Oh, I'll discuss it for as long as it annoys you," George said, grinning. "Which I expect will be several weeks at the least. Maybe months."

"Sod off," Fred said, but then Hermione ducked her head back into the living room.

"Your Mum's here, and she wants to know if you're eating dinner?"

"Yes," said Fred, just as George called: "No."  
The twins eyed each other, and then George sighed and held up his hands in defeat. 

"Fine. We'll stay. But you do realise she's bound to notice you're gone soon?"

"I'm not _leaving_," Fred said defensively. "I'm just having – a bit of a break from talking about getting married. It's like if you were going to be castrated or something, and everyone kept on at you about it. Just makes me more nervous. Sorry Harry."

"That's fine," Harry said, even though the comparison of marriage to castration made him feel a bit woozy himself. 

"Boys!" Mrs Weasley's voice echoed out through the house. "Come and tell me how much you want!"

Harry started off, and the twins trailed in behind him, still arguing under their breath.

Mrs Weasley seemed awfully pleased to have a few more family members at table, and even managed to make pleasant conversation about the joke-shop business. Fred's replies were a little incoherent (he jumped about a metre when Crookshanks knocked something over upstairs) so George fielded most of her enquiries. Harry enjoyed having the attention directed away from he and Ginny, and ate in near-silence. 

Ginny only spoke to her mother to ask her to pass plates. Mrs Weasley appeared to have forgotten the wedding dress fiasco (or was very good at hiding her hurt feelings), and chattered on as she always did. Ron and Hermione were the same as ever, if a little quiet. The twins said nothing about Angelina. 

Harry began to wonder just how many people were pretending at this table when Mrs Weasley asked them to clear plates.

He, Ginny, Ron and Hermione tidied up and carried the dishes into the kitchen. Harry was coming out again for glasses, and saw that Mrs Weasley had moved seats. She was now directly opposite the twins, and leaning over the table, speaking conspiratorially to them. Both looked very interested. Even Fred had lost his nervousness. They began to mutter in return – and then George noticed Harry and nudged his brother, and Mrs Weasley's head bobbed up.

"Oh – hello dear!" she said. "Come along, I'll help you with those."

She stood quickly and began to gather cups, all innocence. Harry was absolutely positive she was up to no good – at least from Ginny's viewpoint – and was of half a mind to say something, but decided not to in the end. Let her organise her part. Ginny could always stop her in her tracks if she had to. 

Later that night, lying in bed, he began to feel that he'd gone sliding back in time, while at the same time moved forwards. That sense was rather disorienting. He considered telling Ginny about it, but she was sleeping soundly and he didn't want to wake her.


	4. Passing Time

A week passed in lazy Burrow-time, but with enough activity to keep Harry occupied at almost every moment. Ginny fretted about the bridesmaids' dresses (Hermione and her friend Jenny – he had her name committed to memory now – were playing those parts), and waited anxiously for news from London about her own gown. She was having it made, and no matter how many times he reassured her, she still refused to believe that it would turn out exactly as she'd hoped. 

Saying that he didn't care what she wore didn't help either. 

He and Ron got in a spot of loafing whenever they could. They didn't discuss Hermione and Richard. Every time the subject came up in Harry's mind, he somehow couldn't voice his thoughts, and besides, they seemed alright now. It was easier on both of them to just stay mum and pretend he didn't know what was happening. 

Mrs Weasley still hadn't said anything about he and Ginny staying in the same room, for which Harry was supremely grateful. He wasn't sure if it was because they were engaged – well, he knew it was because they were engaged – but he understood that it was a step forward. He did his best to keep all notion of he and Ginny sleeping together completely out of Mrs Weasley's way. After a severely embarrassing day two summers ago, he didn't want to risk this new-found freedom.

Or semi-freedom. She was still libel to walk in whenever she liked, completely unannounced. 

The twins had stayed, and came downstairs on the last day of the week, announcing that it was time to de-gnome the garden. They'd been spending an awful amount of time in their room lately, and had been suspiciously quiet. A speckled grey owl arrived frequently for Fred (Angelina's bird?), but Harry had only seen him scribble one note: "Away on Business. XO."

He hoped that wasn't the only news he'd sent Angelina. Ginny would hit him over the head if he ever treated her that way. 

So they're gung-ho approach to what was usually a tedious chore, Harry thought, was a bit odd, after their withdrawal this week. 

"Come on, Mum wants this done before dinner," George said loudly, he and his twin hustling Ron, Hermione and Ginny out the kitchen door. A few gnomes went running on fat legs across the lawn, and Fred set after one with his wand outstretched.

"What's got you so active?" Ginny asked suspiciously, and George rolled his eyes. 

"Good Lord, if I have to listen to my brother whine about his girlfriend one more time, I think I'll explode. I'm just happy to have some _air._"

"Is that what you've been doing upstairs? Whining?"

"That, and other things. Secret things for certain people," George said with a wink, and went chasing after his brother.

If Fred's complaining had gotten George out and about, Harry suspected that Fred was simply taking out some aggression. He was swinging a squealing gnome about his head now, and when he released it, it went flying over the shrubs and out of sight. 

"Do we have to?" Ron said faintly, as _hundreds _of the little devils went leaping from garden bed to garden bed. 

"Where did they all come from?" Harry wondered, almost simultaneously. 

Ginny and Hermione looked at each other, and then Gin squared her shoulders, and Hermione whipped her wand from her pocket and gave it a warming-up-style twirl.

"Come along, then," she said, and went striding forwards, Ginny at her side, kicking hairy hands away from their ankles. 

The boys watched for all of two seconds before they went running after them.

"Girls," Ron said in a mutter. "Never think things through."

"Always rushing in," Harry agreed. 

"Think they're OK on their own, but if we weren't here …"

"What are you two muttering about?" Ginny shouted, and Ron and Harry grinned at each other. 

"Nothing," Harry shouted back. "We're busy being manly."

"Be manly with a bit more concentration," called Hermione, and they turned to find themselves surrounded by garden gnomes, all with an expression of mingled loathing and fear.

"You take the left," Harry said lowly, "and I'll take the right."

Ron nodded.

And, with a battle cry, they went charging ahead.

~

At some point, Harry was separated from Ron and the others, chasing a particularly devious little beast right into the heart of the Weasley garden. It was surprisingly agile for something with such short legs, and Harry was getting ready to jump on it when he pushed past an old moss-covered tree and found himself facing a small, cosy grove, perhaps three by three metres, and, oddly enough, furnished. There were a couple of children's books, a holey maroon jumper, a cracked hairbrush, a desk with three legs, and a wide green corduroy-covered couch.

It was the weirdest thing. It was like he'd stepped into another world. The walls of the room – it was sort of a room – were made up of plants that had twisted themselves together, screening the area from the rest of the garden. Harry didn't know if that was nature or magic or what, but the temperature was evenly cool (unlike the rest of the garden, where the heat was building) and the spot had a nice feeling to it. 

"Hey!" he bellowed, but the shout sounded funny, and he suspected that it hadn't penetrated the green walls. It was sound-proofed and everything? 

"Harry!" came a call, and he jumped. Well, he could _hear_ people from within at least. He stuck his head out of the doorway, and shouted again. 

"I'm here!"

"Harry?"

It was Ginny. She frowned when she saw him, and then her mouth fell open and she stopped in her tracks.

"Come on," he said, suddenly eager for her to see it too. "Have you seen this place?"

"Merlin …" she breathed, and came forward at a half-run. She halted in the doorway, peered inside under his outstretched arm, and then hugged his middle furiously.

"Harry!" she said, not for the first time, and he nudged her, half-laughing.

"What?"

"This was my and Ron's place when we were kids. Dad put it together for us – I think I was 7 and Ron was 8. Anyway, we played here for ages, a few months, and then Ron decided that we had to keep it hidden from the twins, who were always trying to get in. So he found this old book of Charlie's, and it had this Hiding Spell in it …"

"And he botched it?" Harry cut in wryly. She shrugged.

"We did it together, so I suppose we both botched it. Turns out that with this particular charm, the only people who can find the place are those who don't mean to. So naturally, the next time we came, we couldn't find it. We searched _forever_, honestly. And whenever someone from the family comes down in this section, they're sort of half-looking for it, out of habit. And now – Harry, you found it – Merlin –"

She seemed ready to cry, but ducked inside and blinked fiercely, examining all the furniture. 

"Is it the same?" he asked, coming in behind her, and she nodded. 

"Exactly the same. Dad put one of those preservation things on it. If I'd left flowers in here, they'd still be alright."

"Really? What about people?"

"What do you mean?"

"I don't know, what if you'd left Ron in here?"

She burst out laughing and shot him a glance over her shoulder. "I'll tell him you said that."

"I'm not saying it would have been a _good _thing, I just …"

"I get it. I don't know. Maybe he would have just been able to live here forever. Or maybe he would have stayed an eight-year-old. Pretty dangerous Hiding Charm, wasn't it? Can you imagine if you were trapped here?"

"It'd be sort of like – time had stopped," Harry said quietly, considering this. Ginny turned all the way around to look at him.

"What are you thinking about?"

"I don't know," he said honestly. "What are you thinking about?"

"That I missed those times. Being little."

"Do you still miss them?"

"No. I like my times at the moment," she said, and grinned, just a bit. She looked beautiful. The light touching her hair through the leaves was green-tinted. 

"What are you thinking about now?" she said again, coming closer, and it was his turn to grin. 

"I was thinking," he said slowly, putting his hands on her hips as she came within reach, "that maybe we don't have to tell Ron we found this place just yet."

"Oh?"

"It could be handy, once we get that Hiding Charm off it."

"Handy, hey?"

"Handy."

She bit her lip, feigning reluctance. "I suppose it would be."

"You suppose?"

She dropped the act and leant into him. "Our spot, for a while anyway. I like that."

"At least your Mum can't walk in on us here."

"She hasn't yet."

"She's bound to soon."

"Hm. We'll see."

A brief silence, and then Harry spoke over her shoulder.

"Do you think we should – christen our new place, then?"

Another silence, and Ginny's arms went around his waist. 

"I think that would be a good idea."

Soon, they were falling onto the old sofa, in a tangle of limbs and laughter and breath.

~

When they were done, the light outside was dimming, but Harry was reluctant to get up. Her weight on top of him was pleasantly heavy, and her hair on her chest was half-tickly, half-soft, and besides going back in would mean they weren't on their own anymore, and getting her on her own was what he liked best right now, no matter how much he loved family.

"We should go in," she murmured, and he couldn't suppress a sigh.

"Right. OK, we'll go in."

"Not that I wouldn't like to stay, Harry," she said, sounding a little amused, "but there's dinner and everything, and you know how Mum worries."

"It's fine. I know."

She tilted her head to look him in the eye. "In six weeks we'll be able to do this whenever," she said softly, in a reassuring kind of way. He replied as firmly as he could.

"It doesn't matter, I mean it. Really."

Ginny smiled slightly. "Love you."

"Love you too."

"D'you know how to get rid of this Hiding Charm business, Mr Defence-Against-The-Dark-Arts-Assistant?"

"Think so. We'll soon see."

They went for their clothes, and then he went for his wand, and pretty soon they'd fixed things so that while it wouldn't be an easy place for just anyone to find, they'd be able to if they put their minds to it. It was a Room of Requirement trick, and he and Malfoy had learnt it the first year they were Assistants. 

Sometimes work at Hogwarts could really pay off.

~

After dinner, Ginny set up the kitchen table with paper, quills, and a very high pile of blank invitations. She cajoled Harry into sitting with her, and Hermione joined them. Ron escaped on some pretence or other. The twins were in their room, yet again. Mrs Weasley and Mr Weasley were sitting outside, because it was apparently 'too warm not to'. Harry thought that this might be Mr Weasley's oh-so-tactful method of keeping Mrs Weasley away from wedding matters, but forgot about all of that as Ginny picked up her quill and looked expectantly at him.

"What?" he asked, after a long moment, and she sighed impatiently.

"Who's coming?"

"Haven't you already got this list done?"

"I've given verbal invites and all of that, and sort of spread the word around, but I didn't want to do things formally until we were together. So?"

"So?" he repeated, and now both the girls sighed.

"Ask McGonagall and Flitwick and everybody," Hermione suggested. "They'll want to be there."

"Old teachers?" Harry protested, but Ginny was already adding them to her current, quite short list. McGonagall he could understand, she'd been their house teacher, but everyone else?

"The quidditch team," Ginny said, still writing. "And the family."

"How much of the family?" Harry asked, knowing that the Weasleys were quite an extended bunch.

"Just us," Ginny said, to his relief. "Just my brothers and Mum and Dad, and my grandmother who lives in Wales, if she can make it."

"Right. Good."

"Any requests yet Harry?" urged Hermione, and Harry shrugged, rather helplessly.

"Oh, I don't know – Malfoy?"

A tense silence greeted this. Harry looked from Hermione, who was studiously avoiding eye contact, to Ginny, who had her eyebrows raised at him and was biting her lip.

"What's wrong?" he said uneasily, even as he guessed. "Oh come on, you're not still holding a grudge against him?"

"_I'm_ not," Ginny said quickly. "But the boys, and Mum and Dad …"

"Gin, he's my friend, and he'll be offended if I don't send him an invite," Harry said firmly. "Ron and everybody will get over it."

"Alright," she said, shaking her head in defeat. "OK, fine. But if our wedding gets wrecked by my brothers and Malfoy brawling …"

"You can blame it all on me," Harry finished for her. "Go for it."

"You're getting married," Hermione said, a bit tearily, and Ginny grabbed her hand on top of the table and squeezed it. 

"I know," she said. "Isn't it mad?"

"It's not at all," Hermione replied, squeezing back. "That's the best part. It's not mad at all."

They all started as a sharp explosion rang out from upstairs. It seemed to have come from Fred and George's room – and they _knew _it had when George ducked over to the foot of the stairs. His hair and face were black. 

"Sorry about that," he said breathlessly. "Bit of a mix-up. Sorry."

He ducked away again, and the three of them looked at each other. 

"What _are _they up to?" Ginny mused. "I haven't heard explosions from their room since they were still at school."

Hermione shook her head. Harry thought of their chat with Mrs Weasley, but said nothing. It wasn't like he knew what was happening anyway. They could be making their mother some washing powder. 

OK, if he really thought about it, they probably _weren't _making her washing powder – but he was sure it wasn't anything to worry about.

They mailed out the invitations that night, including one to Malfoy and one each, against all Harry's arguments, to Ginny's ex-boyfriends, whom he disliked with unreasoning passion.

"I'm only inviting them," she said eventually, "so they can see how happy I am with you."

"Oh," had been Harry's lame reply.

What's a man supposed to say to that?


	5. In the Morning

A/N: For those who asked and wondered, "Kipping" is sleeping. To take a kip is to have a sleep or nap. We use it here, and I guess I assumed they would over in the mother country. Useful trivia! Thanks for all the reviews, Happy New Year. Sorry this one took me ages. Blame it on the boogie, people. ~98n6~ Shez 

~

Very early the next morning, Harry was heading downstairs, _Ascendant _(looking a bit worse for wear now) in hand, when he heard the light thud of two feet hitting the doorstep. He took the last two steps at a single stride, and swung into the kitchen, only to see Angelina Johnson calmly leaning her broom up against the counter. Her hair was in thin braids all over, and she was wearing jeans and a blue T-shirt.

"Er – hello," Harry said, not knowing exactly how to respond to her unexpected arrival, and she looked up sharply.

"Oh, hello Harry," she replied, eyebrows lifting. "I didn't realise you were here."

"We are. I mean, I am, with Ginny. The wedding and all. We sent you and Fred a joint invitation last night …"

He trailed off. 

_You probably shouldn't have mentioned Fred,_ winced inner monologue, but it was too late now

"Is Fred here?" she asked, almost carelessly, and he couldn't lie. 

"Yeah. He is."

"Been here all week?"

"Um – yes, I think so. He and George."

"Right," she murmured and her dark eyes flashed dangerously. There was a long pause in which Harry contemplated running for the hills. Then she took a deep breath, chewed her lip and calmed herself.

"Whereabouts in the house is he staying?" she asked finally.

"Um – well –" Harry floundered. He liked Angelina very much, but he didn't want to drop Fred in it, especially now that the twins were living at home and had access to his food. He wouldn't put it past them (not even at age 21 – or was it 22 now?) to slip old-fashioned canary creams in his dinner.

"You can tell me," Angelina said encouragingly, and Harry found himself relenting, and jerking his head at the stairs.

"Their old room."

"Thanks, Harry." She smiled at him, but as soon as she turned, the smile dropped away and was replaced with an expression of determination and contained anger. She took the stairs lightly, and he followed her, vaguely keeping an eye on breakable furniture. She knew her way to the twins' room and rapped quietly on their door, before folding her arms across her chest and waiting. 

Harry hesitated nearby in the hall. He knew he should just leave, and that it was none of his business, but it was like he was frozen to the spot. He felt an odd sort of responsibility, because he'd let her in, but by the time he realised that he really _really _ought to let them be alone, Fred had opened the door and seen his girlfriend. 

"Oh fuck," he said heavily, and Angelina's hands moved to her hips.

"No I haven't been doing much of that lately," she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "My boyfriend isn't around."

"Angie, let me explain."

"That's why I'm here, Fred. I'm here so you can explain to me exactly why you disappeared for a week, _without_ telling me where you were going, _without _responding to my letters, _without _even a mention of your purposes, or when you might be coming back, despite the fact that I am your _live-in _girlfriend, who has every _right _to know where you're taking your little _holiday_."

Angelina's voice had been increasing in volume throughout this speech, so that by the time she reached its end, she was shouting. Every few words or so were punctuated with a jab at Fred's chest. 

"Will you just calm down?" Fred said, backing away from her, and Harry winced outwardly this time. He knew from past experience that 'calm down' was never the right tack to take with an angry woman.

Fred realised his mistake as Angelina descended into a furious silence and glanced about, rather desperately, for support. His gaze fell upon Harry and he frowned.

"Did you let her in?" he began accusingly, but Angelina cut him off. 

"Yes, he did, thank Merlin, or I'd still be searching London for you."

"Angie …"

George slipped out of their room at just that moment, carrying his pillow and a blanket. 

"'Scuse me," he said sleepily, pushing gently past Angelina and heading down the hall. "If you don't mind."

"George!" Fred said, almost pleadingly, but George shook his head. 

"You're on your own." As he passed Harry, he lowered his voice to a whisper. "I'd get out of here while there's still time, Potter."

With that, he swept down the stairs – and Harry came to his senses. With a quick apologetic wave to Fred, he made his way back towards the guest room. As he left, he heard the twins' door slam, and Angelina's voice go up a few notches. 

Fred was in for a very long morning.

~

Harry tucked his broom under his arm and pushed their bedroom door open. It wasn't until he saw Mrs Weasley inside the room that he realised the door had already been slightly ajar when he arrived, and that she must have _Alohamora-_ed her way in. 

And it wasn't until he'd watched her for several seconds that he realised what she was doing. She was holding the old wedding dress Harry had got a glimpse of earlier, but not just _holding _it – holding it up against Ginny's still-sleeping form, very carefully, so as not to wake her. She even had a sleeve stretched out along the length of Ginny's outflung arm, and was muttering to herself.

Harry coughed pointedly in the doorway, and she jumped and spun to face him.

There was a long silence. Then Mrs Weasley swept forward with the dress over her arm, out into the hall, pulling Harry with her as she went. She shut the door and immediately launched into a hushed appeal.

"Don't tell Ginny, Harry. You know what she's like."

"Mrs Weasley, I …" he began, and she grabbed his shoulder. 

"Please Harry. I promise I won't make her wear it. I just wanted to see what it might look like on her, for my sake. It's a mother thing, dear."

"But –"

"Please Harry."

Harry shut his mouth, lost for words, and right away she was smiling and patting his cheek.

"Thank you, dear. I'm glad you understand."  
She walked away before he could get a word of contradiction in, and he was left standing aimlessly. Frustrated, he leant on the door, and banged the back of his head once against the wood. Great. Stuck between his future mother-in-law and his future-wife. That was _exactly _where he wanted to be.

The door opened suddenly and he stumbled back into the bedroom. Regaining his feet, he found Ginny blinking tiredly at him, tugging at her pyjama bottoms, too-short shorts with the _Chudley Cannons _logo on them. Harry suspected they had once belonged to Ron, but didn't really mind about that. Her legs looked amazing in those things.

"What are you doing out there?"

"Um – nothing," he said.

"Who were you talking to?"

"No-one. Angelina arrived this morning."

"Oh, did she?"

"Mm."

His eyes kept dropping to her thighs and calves and feet, and back up again, and Mrs Weasley was slipping slowly to the back of his mind. Did it really matter, the whole wedding dress thing? She'd promised not to pursue the issue. Let the woman have her fun – Ginny would never let her get away with too much, anyway.

Ginny followed his gaze, and then put a hand under his chin, lifting his face.

"I'm here," she said, amused. "What's the matter?"

"You look great." His voice was hoarse. She bit her lip, and he put one hand on hers and linked their fingers. "Really great."

"I just got up."

"Amazing."

"My hair's a mess."

"Don't change it."

"Harry, it's half six in the morning."

"Plenty of time."

He bent his head to kiss her jawbone, and her neck. Her skin tasted like clean sheets, lavender and salt. She stood where she was for a moment, and then leant into him and kissed him too, her hands moving into his hair. Her lips were firm. He wondered if his felt like that as they moved out of the corridor, into their room (he kicked the door shut on the way) and stepped their way backwards towards the unmade bed. He nearly tripped on one of her shoes, and she broke into giggles as they fell onto the covers.

"Very smooth."

"Shuddup," he murmured, unhooking his glasses and tossing them onto the bedside table.

She was still grinning as she pulled his shirt off, and his heart (and other places) were throbbing fiercely now. 

In fact, his hands were just discovering the fact that she didn't have a bra on – naturally, coming straight from bed – when the door opened yet again.

"Oh!" came a sharp cry, and both of them jerked violently and sat up. It was Mrs Weasley. She'd turned her back, but didn't appear to be leaving. 

"Oh my God," Ginny muttered and rolled out of bed, leaping over to the door. She and her mother had a heated, whispered conversation, which Harry couldn't hear. He was too busy blushing, and wondering what the _hell_ Ginny's mum was doing, coming back when she'd just left. 

"I wanted to let you know that you'll have to make your own breakfast, Harry, because I'm off to meet Bill in London," she called eventually, over her shoulder. "I didn't realise – that you'd be busy."

"Mum!" Ginny wailed, sounding anguished. "Will you go?"

"I'm sorry!" She paused. "It's very early, isn't it?"

"_Mum!_"

"Alright, I'm going. For heaven's sake."

She clicked her tongue to make a "tut-tut" kind of sound, and then went briskly down the stairs. 

Ginny shut the door and covered her face with her hands. 

"It's OK," Harry said, but when she looked up, he saw she was laughing.

"I know. It's just – well, at least she seems to be alright with us sleeping together."

Harry groaned and threw himself down on their bed, and she came over to lie beside him. 

"Come on," she said, stroking his bare stomach. 

"Don't do that," he warned. "I won't be held responsible for the consequences."

"Harry."

"I hate it when your mum does that."

"How often does she do it?"

"That's twice now, at my count."

"Well – do you want to keep going?"

"She knows what we're doing now!"

"And?"

"And – and don't you think it's weird, your mum sitting around, _knowing_ that we're having sex?"

She tried to suppress a smile, and failed. "When you put it like that, yes. Are you sure I can't – change your mind?"

Ginny kissed him slowly, and for some time, while his hands moved, as though of their own volition, to her waist.

"Well," he said, as they took a moment's breath, "I guess you could _try._"

She kissed him again, still smiling, and moved to straddle him. Her body was light and familiar, and Harry was ready to forget about the events of the morning entirely when there was a knock at the door. 

"For the love of Pete," he muttered, even as Ginny dropped her head. "No, forget it."

The knock came again, and Ginny sighed. "We'd better."

"No."

Another knock, and then George's voice, very annoyed. "I know you're in there, Potter. Will you stop shagging my sister for a moment and come and greet your guest?"

"Guest?" he replied after a silence, confused, but George had already padded away. 

He looked at Ginny.

"Go on," she said softly. "We'll finish this later."

"Sorry."

"I know."

"You have no idea how much."

"I have some idea," she said dryly, moving off him, and he flushed. He always went red when she referred to – that. Couldn't help it. Sometimes it was terrible being a guy. At least when a girl was turned on, everybody else didn't have to know.__

"Right," he murmured. "See you soon."  
~

The 'guest', much to his shock, was Draco Malfoy. The blonde man was sitting alone at the Weasleys' kitchen table. He looked distinctly out of place – Harry almost didn't recognise him in this setting. He was wearing Muggle clothes (a white long-sleeved collared shirt, and jeans) and an uncomfortable expression. He stood when Harry came in.

"Malfoy?" he said, bemused, and the Slytherin nodded shortly.

"Yes. Hello."

"Er – hello."

They shook hands, and Harry scratched his head.   

"So George let you in?"

"Let me in and left me here," Malfoy said. He didn't seem particularly surprised, or even concerned. "I don't think he wanted to talk to me."

"Oh – I'm sure that's not it," Harry lied. Of course George didn't want to talk to him. He and Fred hated Malfoy. Most of the Weasleys hated Malfoy, in fact, or barely tolerated him. Harry had managed to convert Ginny, but only with a lot of coaxing, and Ron point-blank refused to be civil. 

"Right," Malfoy said. His eyes ran over Harry's slightly dishevelled appearance. "I didn't catch you in the middle of something, did I?"

"Funny," Harry said, narrowing his eyes. "Do you have your broom?"

"Of course."

"Shall we go for a fly?"

"If you like."

"Hang on, I'll just fetch mine."

~

They flew lazily for close to an hour, and then picked a place to touch down, in the middle of an open field. They walked with their brooms in silence for a little while, and then Malfoy spoke.

"So I did actually have a purpose for coming."

Direct to the point, as always. 

"Right. What was that, then?"

"I got your wedding invite."

"Already?"

"Fast owl. Anyway, I got it, and I just wanted to decline in person."

Harry stopped. "Decline? What, why?"

"I can't make it then. I'm going overseas."

"Where?"

"Portugal."

"Why?"

"Not your business, Potter," Malfoy snapped. He'd stopped too now, and had his hands on his hips, defensive-style.

For some reason, this made him mad. Not just the snippiness, but the fobbing off as well. He couldn't see why Malfoy didn't just reschedule the business stuff and come to his bloody wedding! It was kind of an important event in his life, and a friend would make the effort, wouldn't he?

"OK – that's unexpected," Harry said finally. "Well. Don't worry about it."

He began to walk again, taking big strides, and heard Malfoy sigh. The Slytherin caught up to him at a half-jog, and moved fast to keep pace.

"You're angry."

"No I'm not."

"Yes you bloody are," Malfoy retorted. "Will you stop walking?" 

They both stopped a second time, and Malfoy ran a hand through his hair in frustration.

"Look," he said, "I'm not blowing you off. I'd like to come."

"So come, then."

"I don't think that's such a good idea."

"Why on earth not?"

"Remember the girl you're marrying?"

"Yes, I remember the girl I'm marrying, thank you."

"Well, remember how her family hates me?" Malfoy said patiently.

"They don't …" Harry began, and his friend cut him off.

"Oh come on. They hate me, alright, I know it, you know it. Let's bypass the bullshit."

Harry didn't know quite what to say to this.

"Fine," he managed, after a long pause, in which Malfoy stared him down. "So they don't like you all that much. Not yet. That shouldn't stop you from coming."

"I wouldn't want to spoil things," he said breezily. "Forget it, I'll see you afterwards at work."

"Malfoy …"

"And I _am _out of the country anyway. I'm afraid it's just not possible, Potter. But thank you very much for asking. Come on, shall we fly back? I've got to be back in London by noon."

He was back on his broom before Harry could pursue the issue, and by the time they'd reached The Burrow, he'd given up hope. When Draco put his mind to something, there was absolutely no changing it. It was the old Malfoy stubbornness (or arrogance, depending on which way you looked at it) shining through. 

He didn't stay for lunch, and neither did Angelina. Harry saw her leaving at about eleven-thirty, but Fred didn't emerge, so he couldn't ask him how it had gone.

All in all, an eventful morning. He was just about ready to go back to bed by midday.


	6. Londoning Again

"Are you done yet?"

"Sh!" The thin-lipped shop assistant came out of the change-rooms and glared at him, a finger to her lips. Harry made an apologetic face, but he didn't feel very sorry really. He'd been waiting outside for fifteen minutes, and hadn't heard a sound from Ginny in all that time. 

"Is she done?" he asked the lady, and, relenting a little, she nodded.

"So?" Harry prompted, but then Ginny came out, carrying her wedding dress over her arms. He went forward immediately and she held it out to him.

"What do you think?"

It was lovely, even he could see that. Made out of some kind of silky stuff, and white as milk. Slender. Simple. Not a bit of lace in sight. It was entirely – her.

"I like it," he said finally, looking up. 

"Just 'like'?"

"It's great, Gin. Can't I see you in it?"

"Of course not," she frowned. "It's bad luck, Harry."

"Who says?"

"Everybody."

"Oh. Right."

"You'll see it on the day."

"Mm," he said, and managed a half-nervous grin. Two weeks had passed since Malfoy's brief visit, and the wedding was a month away. Four weeks. Twenty-eight days, or thereabouts. In twenty-eight days, he would be different. Not a different person, but living a different life. It was the life he wanted – the one they'd chosen for themselves – but it was still a bit frightening.

"You alright?" she asked, and he nodded. He was. He _was _alright. Whenever he saw Ginny, or hell, even thought about her, he knew that marrying her was what he wanted. 

"OK. I'll wait till the day," he said. "And you'll be beautiful."

He leant forward to touch his forehead to hers.

"Thanks," she said softly. "And thank Merlin it worked out."

"Ahem." It was that woman again. She sounded enough like Umbridge to make him want to slap her, but he controlled himself and looked up politely. "Shall I put the dress away?" she said stiffly. "We wouldn't want it to be damaged."

_I'm not going to damage it_, he protested inwardly, but Ginny simply nodded and carefully slid the dress from her arms to the shop assistant's. 

"Thank you for that," she said. "It's brilliant. Just what I wanted."

"At _Bridal Business,_" the woman said, eyeing her beadily, "we always provide what customers want."

"Really?" Harry muttered. "Because what _I _want is to give that lady a kick up the –"

Ginny elbowed him fiercely, and he fell silent, mostly from the unexpected pain assailing his ribs. She had a vicious aim with that thing.

"Paper?" the assistant asked.

"Plastic," was Ginny's sweet reply.

They left with the shop with promises to come back for the dress at the end of the day. Ginny, understandably, did not want to be carting it all around London. Out on the pavement, they stopped to survey the street and decide where to head next. It was a busy day in Diagon Alley. The bridal shop was in an obscure area, but Harry was pretty sure of his bearings. After all, he lived here when he wasn't at Hogwarts or The Burrow.

"Shall we drop in on the twins?" he said, and Ginny made a face. 

"Oh, do we have to? Fred's in such an awful mood these days, and George isn't much better."

"Good point," Harry acknowledged. The twins were still living in their room in The Burrow, at Fred's insistence, because he apparently hadn't made it up with Angelina yet. George was growing more and more frustrated by his brother's snappishness, to the point where even _they _were beginning to argue. Every other day they'd come into the store (which they'd left temporarily in the hands of Lee Jordan, yet again), but it was probably best to stay out of their way.

"So where to?" Harry continued, and Ginny squeezed his hand hopefully.

"Shoes?"

His heart sank. Girl shopping. _Be strong, man. _He gritted his teeth.

"Shoes? Sure. For the wedding?"

"I have my wedding shoes. Just general, you know, shopping."

Oh, he knew. He'd once made the mistake of taking Hermione and Ginny out shopping. It had been close to the most boring three hours of his life. 

Then again, this was the _love _of his life. And at least he was spending time alone with her. 

"OK. Shopping. For shoes."

"Really?"

"Really," he said firmly. "I love – shoes."

Her hand slipped out of his and around his waist, and she hugged him sideways.

"I know you don't. Thanks."

~

It was rather nice wandering about with Ginny, actually. Diagon Alley was a changeless sort of place. Every time he walked it with her, he found himself remembering the last time they'd done it, and the time before that, until all his memories sort of became one, and that one memory was the present moment as well. It was an odd feeling, but comforting too.

He liked the way she smelt, and the way she fit perfectly under his arm. 

She bought two pairs of shoes, one for quidditch and one pair of high heels, and then made him buy lace-ups for the wedding when she realised he hadn't purchased new ones yet. They ate lunch at a café, and then had ice-cream, and watched people passing. He recognised a few Hogwarts students, and some of them waved, but most went right on by.

He really liked being _normal _too, for once in his life. All the hype about Voldemort and Harry's part in his downfall had finally reached a lull, and it was sweet to just sit with his fiancée as though he'd never killed a Dark Wizard or fallen into a diary, or any of those things.

He knew those events were _part _of him. It was just nice not to be reminded every moment by strangers' stares and mutterings.

After eating, they made their way over to Harry's apartment (_our apartment_, he corrected himself). It didn't take long – it overlooked Diagon Alley. Harry had managed to get the place in his first holiday from assisting at Hogwarts, over Christmas. The landlady liked him so much that he didn't even pay rent when he wasn't living there. He suspected that she wanted to be able to say she chatted to Harry Potter more than anything else. 

When he opened the door, a wave of dust hit him and he coughed. Ginny waved her hand in front of her face. 

"Bit musty, isn't it?"

"Haven't been here for months."

"I'll fix it," she said determinedly, and marched in with her wand outstretched. He watched her hit every corner with a potent _Scourgify _charm, and the grime and dust literally evaporated. She murmured something else, and the room was suddenly sweet-smelling too, like fresh flowers. 

"There," she said with satisfaction, pocketing her wand. "A bit better."

Harry came all the way in and spun in a brief circle. "Much better. I can see my hand in front of me now."

She smiled and went to the window, opening it halfway. He followed her, and looked down at the street from over her shoulder. 

"So nice here," he murmured.

It really was an excellent apartment. Fantastic view. Convenient, cosy. A fireplace with Floo connection, kitchenette, two bedrooms. Some of his photos were hanging on the wall – Hermione had put them into frames for him on his last birthday. The place was potent with possibility. 

He was just about to say this to Ginny when she spoke.

"I'm sorry about spending the summer at my house."

"What?"

"I know you didn't want to."

"I thought I told you."

"Yeah."

"I _know _I told you. I don't mind. I love the Burrow."

She turned so that her elbows leant against the window frame, and didn't meet his eye. 

"Yes, you said. I know. But we could have been spending time here like Christmas, and we wouldn't have mum walking in on us, or the twins with their bloody explosions and rampant girlfriends, and we wouldn't have – oh, I don't know, Ron and 'Mione bickering. All of that. It would have been just us …"

"We've got plenty of time for just us," he said firmly. He hated that she was agonising over this. 

"I know, I know," she repeated. "Just – well it's not easy for us at Hogwarts either, is it? And being at home doesn't help."  
Was this about Hogwarts now?

"We manage," he said, rather warily, and she nodded.

"Of course."

"And next term we'll be married and we'll share quarters, and things'll be fine."

"I know Harry. I mean – oh, I don't know what I mean. I suppose – I feel bad about making you come home with me."

"You didn't make me," he said, laughing a little in bemusement. "I came to be with you."

"Right," she said. "Well – I'm sorry if it's not what you wanted."

This was sounding more and more serious, and he didn't like it. Determined to bring an end to this odd conversation, he put his hands on her hips and kept his eyes on her face until she glanced up. 

"Don't say you're sorry," he said. "There's nothing to be sorry about. I love the Burrow, and I love you, and I'm having a good time, no matter what you think. I don't care where we stay, as long as both us are there – and your mum doesn't see us having actual sex."

She broke into a smile again and nodded once. "OK."

"OK." He kissed her, and when he pulled back, had to ask: "What brought all that on?"

She shrugged. Her expression was as puzzled as his own.

"Don't know. Just thoughts floating around in my head. I feel a bit funny. Emotional, you know, with the wedding, and the dress."

"My shoes," he added solemnly, and she hit him on the shoulder.

"Don't tease. I do. It's a girl thing, I think …"

"And I wouldn't understand," he finished for her. "Right."

There was a long silence, and then he found himself moving closer. She made him want to carry her off without even doing anything, just by standing against a window and tucking her hair behind her ear, and saying sorry when she didn't need to. Did she know she was doing this to him? How exactly did she have him so wrapped up in her?

One of life's ultimate mysteries. He'd probably never know the answer. 

They didn't need many words after that. They were completely alone, for the first time in weeks, and they were getting married – there was really only one way to celebrate, and it involved far fewer clothes than they currently had on. 

Within five minutes, she wasn't wearing anything, and he couldn't be sure, but he thought he might have lost his boxers out the window.

~

Lying in bed, with orange light cutting across the room, Harry did not want to get up. Merlin, it was nice sleeping with her in the afternoon. It made him feel lazy. He shifted slightly to look at her, and she was looking at him, the side of her face squashed against the pillow. 

"Hello," he smiled.

"Hello."

"I thought you were asleep."

"I thought you were."

"I'm awake."

"I see."

Long pause as he absently pushed hair out of her eyes. He wondered if they'd resolved the whole apologising-for-staying-at-the-Burrow-this-summer issue, and thought he should round up the conversation – it had come to rather an abrupt end earlier.

"You know," he said, "I mean it when I say I don't mind staying with your family. And when we're married, we're coming back here anyway."

"So we are."

"It'll be our place every holiday."

"And then to Hogwarts."

"Yeah. It's like having two homes."

"Mm," she said – but the 'mm' didn't sound content. It sounded a bit strange. Forced, even. He wanted to ask what the matter was, but she was sitting up now, pushing away the covers. He watched her stand and search for her clothes. 

For the very first time, he wondered if Hogwarts was really where she wanted to be.

He'd never questioned it before. She seemed very happy going from the Quidditch team to her assistant coaching duties, and had never complained earlier. But then again, he hadn't thought to ask if she wanted something else. Something different, something more. He'd assumed that she loved the place he loved, and with as much fervour.

Was he reading too much into this 'mm'? The strangeness he'd sensed could have been weariness or a stifled yawn or gas. He didn't have much faith in his intuitive abilities, and knew his best bet was to just ask, but that seemed even harder at this moment, because he didn't _want _to know if there was something wrong. He loved his job and he loved Hogwarts. He didn't want any complications.

_Well_, inner monologue pointed out, _if she really has a problem, she'll tell you._

That was true. Ginny wasn't one to keep the truly important things to herself. If she didn't like the current situation with their staying at Hogwarts, she'd sit down and explain her feelings. 

Or maybe there were no feelings to explain. Maybe the 'mm' was just an 'mm', and he was going mad with too much sex and heat.

"Gin …" he began, and she glanced over shoulder at him, having just wriggled into her shirt.

"Yes?"

She was completely normal. 

"I – nothing," he said faintly. 

She half-frowned, half-smiled. "Are you OK?"

"Fine."

"Worn out?" she continued, rather cheekily, and he got out of bed himself.

"A bit. Why, aren't you?"

"I'm an athlete, Mr Potter. Not much can wear me out."

Harry grinned. Let her have that one.

"Have you seen my boxers?" he said, scratching his head, and she nodded her head at the window-frame.

"They're hanging in there, just barely."

They were hooked on the open window's latch, dangling like a flag for the population of Diagon Alley to admire. 

He thanked God they hadn't landed on the street when he was fetching them, because Oliver Wood was passing outside. He whipped his underwear back into the room, and shouted down to him.

"Oi!"

Wood ducked wildly. 

"Oi!" Harry shouted again. "Up here!"

This time, the former quidditch captain looked up, squinted, and then realised what he was seeing.

"Well, if it isn't Harry Potter," he said wonderingly. "What are you doing there?"

"My apartment," Harry called. "Mine and Ginny's."

"Was that your underwear I spotted?" Oliver said, and shook his head at Harry's immediate blush. He willed it to go away.

"We're just coming down. Meet you at the door."

~

"Merlin's knees, look at you two," Oliver laughed, gripping Harry in a brief and uncompromising bear hug that he recognised from Gryffindor Quidditch wins. When Wood released him, he leant over to Ginny and kissed her cheek, and then stepped back to survey them both. Ginny snuck her hand into Harry's, and they both began to laugh, rather nervously. It was so much like being sized up at an audition.

"You look marvellous," Wood commented finally. "And you're getting married."

"Invitation went out two weeks ago," Ginny agreed. "You got yours, didn't you?"

"I did. I've my RSVP here, believe it or not." He pulled a crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket and thrust it into her hand. "Kept meaning to owl it, but things are mad with the club at the moment."

"Oh, why?" Ginny asked. "Is it anything to be worried about?"

"Not for you lot," Wood said, his tone descending suddenly into gloom. "But we're in the shit – excuse me, in a lot of trouble. We were doing so well, and then we lost our Seeker last week, Wiltshire –"

"I heard," Ginny interrupted. "Nasty fall."

"I thought he was alright, though," Harry said, confused. "The commentators said he'd make a full recovery."

"A full recovery within three months!" Wood fumed. "Couldn't he have been injured in the early games, when we might have brought another player in? The git. Absolutely no warning for us."

It was typically Oliver to demand that a player know when he is going to be hurt, and preferably inform his team captain beforehand. Harry grinned; he had such strong memories of Wood's particular brand of quidditch-mania in his years at Hogwarts.

"It's not funny, Potter!" Wood protested, and Harry wiped the smile from his face.

"I know. Sorry."

"What about the reserves?" Ginny asked, but Wood shook his head again.

"They're both injured."

"_Both_?" she repeated incredulously. "How can they –"

"They got into a fight," Wood cut in. "With each other. They're in simultaneous comas. Prats."

"Are they alright?"

"Oh, of course they are," Wood said impatiently, waving a hand. "Not important. What's important is the fact that –"

Here he trailed off, staring at Ginny. She met his gaze for some time, then glanced uneasily at Harry, and back to Oliver. 

"What?" she asked slowly, and Wood blinked.

"Come try out for our team."

"What? Don't be silly."

"What's silly? You could."

"I've got a contract."

"It expires soon, though?"

"Well – soon enough. But anyway, I'm going to renew it. They're flexible with my hours and things."

"Flexible!" Wood said derisively. "Who needs flexible? You could go places with us, Ginny. And you're one of the best Seekers in England at the moment."

"Shut it," she said, ears reddening. "Anyway, I can't. I've got my Hogwarts job too."

"Oh? What job?"

"Assistant coaching, part-time."

"Oh. Right, I see."

"Yes."

There was an awkward silence, and then Wood shrugged.

"Well, think about it. We might be able to work around the Hogwarts thing, do a sort of part-time deal. Maybe. You'd have to try out to find out."

"I suppose."

"Got to be in it to win it."

"Yes."

"Think about it."

"I will."

Oliver glanced at his watch, and then put his hands on his hips.

"Lovely to see you both. I'll be at the wedding."

"Good to see you too," Harry said. 

He raised a hand 'goodbye' at both of them and strode away.

"Take care, Oliver," Ginny called to his retreating back, and he waved again before disappearing around the corner.

"God," Harry said, letting out a breath. "He's exhausting, isn't he? I'd forgotten." He paused, and nudged her. "What do you think about this try-out thing?"

"Don't know," she said, biting her lip. "Don't know what to think about it."

Another silence, and then she squeezed his hand once.

"Come on. We'd better get going."


	7. Secret Keeping and Revealing

A/N: I have been absent for far, far too long, but I swear it's through no fault of my own! As I am working at a school here in England, I am unable to access Fanfic.net - it's blocked on their system. As you can imagine, it's been very frustrating. My sister recently sent me my story outline, and I've been doing my best between all the work to write up chapters - internet cafes are my last hope for uploading them. I hope you'll forgive me, and not hate me for abandoning you. It was absolutely not my intention! So, my most humble apologies. Honestly. ~nm3x5s~ Shez . PS - Sorry. PPS - Thank you for the reviews while I was gone. And sorry. :( PPPS PS - have no idea if this will load as am uploading it from an internet cafe in Rome (I am on holiday) , and they only have WordPad, not Microsoft Word. Sorry again! Ah!  
  
~  
  
They were home by late afternoon, Ginny holding her wedding dress in her arms like a baby. She refused to let Harry carry it, or even to levitate the thing, just in case the folds 'went wrong'. Harry went along with it. She obviously loved the dress and that was the main thing, that she wasn't worried anymore, that she was happy. He got to carry the bags of shoes, and other bits and pieces, and was subsequently lagging behind when they Apparated back into the Burrow - Ginny having refused, quite understandably, to take her dress through the Floo network.   
  
"Mum!" she shouted. Harry dropped the bags onto the kitchen table. Ginny moved very carefully into the lounge room, dress held in front of her,   
  
"Mum!"  
  
"Maybe she's not in," he suggested, but (in the way of these things) was immediately contradicted as Mrs Weasley appeared at the top of the stairs.   
  
"Oh, you're home!" she said warmly, coming down. "Put the kettle on, Harry dear."  
  
Obediently, he stood and moved to do so.   
  
"Where's Ginny?" she asked, but then her daughter came back into the kitchen, still bearing her dress aloft, and with a wide, glad grin on her face.   
  
"I'm here," she said.   
  
There was a brief silence.  
  
"So you are," she said eventually, and then took three purposeful strides to Harry and relieved him of the newly-filled kettle. "I'll do that," she said briskly, and bustled him away with waving hands. Bemused, he turned - Ginny's face had fallen into a frown, and she'd lowered her dress a little. The hem almost touched the floor.   
  
"Gin," Harry murmured, pointing. "Just, um ."  
  
Noticing, she quickly lifted the dress up again, and her spirits seemed to rise with it.   
  
"Don't you think it's lovely, Mum?" she said challengingly.   
  
Mrs Weasley didn't turn around. "Lovely, yes."  
  
"And it fits perfectly. They designed it just like I asked."  
  
"That's wonderful, dear."  
  
"I know. It is wonderful."  
  
There was another pause, longer this time, and more awkward.   
  
"Mum?" Ginny said finally, exasperated. "Will you at least look at it?"  
  
Harry winced, anticipating an explosion from his mother-in-law-to-be, but instead she simply did as Ginny asked - turned, looked at it. Harry's eyes moved back and forth between their two faces. Ginny's confident, almost defiant; Mrs Weasley's unreadable. Perhaps a little sad, if anything. Harry remembered how she'd held her old wedding dress against her daughter's body.   
  
"Very nice," she said, after some time. "Very nice."  
  
Ginny nodded slowly, and seemed about to speak again, but before she could Hermione had come in.   
  
"Hello, you're - Ginny, is this it?"   
  
Ginny's earlier enthusiasm returned immediately, along with her smile. Hermione rushed forward, squealing excitedly, but her hands touching the plastic-covered dress were delicate, almost reverent.   
  
"Wow," she breathed. "Wow, it's amazing."  
  
Ginny's smile stretched further, if that was possible. "I know, I know!"  
  
Hermione gripped her hand and giggled, and then Ginny giggled, and they jumped up and down a little in a fit of excitement. Harry started to laugh himself - they looked so much like the schoolgirls he remembered at that moment.   
  
"Best take it out of the kitchen," Mrs Weasley said, somewhat dryly. "You don't want it near the tea, do you?"  
  
Hermione and Ginny sobered immediately. "I'll take it up to my room," Ginny said, and Hermione was quick to add: "I'll come with you."  
  
"And I'll be off," said Harry, taking a step towards the kitchen door. The girls, who appeared to have forgotten him, both turned.   
  
"Alright," Ginny said, her smile softening. "Hang on."  
  
He hung on. She passed the dress to Hermione, very carefully (She wouldn't give it to you, inner monologue protested, but only faintly), and then came across to him so happily that she was half-skipping. She put her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek.   
  
"Thanks for today, it was good," she said in his ear, her breath warm against his neck, and he nodded. It had been good. It always was with her.   
  
She pulled back from him, kissed him on the lips, and then disappeared upstairs, Hermione and dress in tow.   
  
"Alright, Mrs Weasley?" he said, feeling somehow uncomfortable after the awkwardness of moments earlier, but she seemed herself again.   
  
"I can manage, Harry," she said brightly, surveying the kitchen as though he were only talking about the washing up. "Off you go. I think Ron's waiting for you."  
  
It was true. He was standing in the garden, just outside the kitchen window, both his and Harry's brooms in hand.   
  
~  
  
They flew for almost twenty minutes, tossing a quaffle, not talking - or at least, not talking about anything. Occasionally they'd call out for a pass, or say 'watch it' if the ball looked in danger of hitting the house. As Ron liked to say, there were enough quaffles on the Weasley roof to keep the Cannons in stock for years. They wouldn't be hard to retrieve - just nobody could be bothered, and fair enough, in Harry's mind. The residents of the Burrow were far too busy to bother with lost sports equipment.   
  
"So," Ron said eventually, gliding closer on his broom so that he wouldn't have to shout. "Have a good day?"  
  
"Yeah. It was good. Bit surreal," Harry admitted.  
  
"Why surreal?"  
  
"Because - well - it's happening, isn't it?"  
  
"The wedding?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"What did you think, it was just a bit of play-acting?" Ron asked, amused, and Harry threw him the quaffle a little harder than usual, grinning.   
  
"I don't know. Not play-acting - but it didn't seem real, not even when we were making the lists and planning the menu and all that. And then, when I saw her come out of the change-room with that dress . it was like everything came together in my head."  
  
Harry and Ron had both slowed their flying now, and were circling lazily about each other, the quaffle crossing between them from time to time.   
  
"Yeah?" Ron said, and Harry nodded.   
  
"Yeah."  
  
"But - you're OK, right?" Ron said warily.   
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"You do - want to get married?"  
  
"Oh, course," Harry said indignantly. "That's not what I mean, I just . today it felt real. That's all."  
  
"Right." He shook his head and whistled lowly. "You and Gin, married. Never thought I'd see the day."  
  
"Never thought I'd see the day when you and Hermione finally got together," Harry said teasingly, "but it happened, didn't it?"  
  
"Yeah," Ron agreed, but he sounded rather sober. Harry wondered if he should approach the whole Richard issue - it was easier to discuss it with Hermione than Ron - but it turned out he didn't have to. Ron steered the conversation his own way.   
  
"I thought 'Mione might get a bit carried away with the whole wedding thing, what with you guys getting hitched."  
  
Now it was Harry's turn to be amused. "You thought she'd be dragging you into the dark abyss of marriage, and what?"   
  
Ron rolled his eyes. "Not exactly." He hesitated. "OK, yeah. Yes. But she's been fine. No meaningful hints, no talks about commitment and 'the next step' and all that. Totally relaxed."  
  
"And that's good?"  
  
Ron nodded, and there was a brief, comfortable silence between them, the quaffle arcing slowly through the evening air. When Ron spoke next, it was almost as though he was speaking to himself. Harry rarely heard him talk about what he and Hermione had, but when he did, it always made him want to shake his head in wonder. It was a different Ron.   
  
"It's so good to be with her, and know she's with me, you know? I mean, we've been together forever, and - well, I guess we will get married one day - of course we will - but just knowing that's enough. I'm never going to get tired of her, or want something better, because - she is the better. She's the best. If you know what I mean." He glanced quickly at Harry and then away, as though uncertain what Harry would think of all this.   
  
"Yeah," Harry said. "I do know what you mean."  
  
And it was the oddest thing, because Harry knew that being able to talk to him like this, talk about women, say these things and mean them, and not have to put over any bravado - it was this, more than anything else, that proved they were finally men.  
  
He was almost tempted to say something, but then Ron threw a particularly lazy ball. It went sailing over Harry's head and straight for the house, and Harry sped after it. It wasn't a difficult pursuit - his Ascendant was fast, and a quaffle moves with gravity rather the mechanics of a Snitch - and he caught the ball just outside a window. Shifting on his broom, he realised that it was Ginny's window, their window, and that the blinds were up. Automatically, he looked inside, and what he saw made him stop moving, breathing - made his heart beat harder.   
  
Ginny had changed into her dress, and was looking at herself in the mirror. Hermione, behind her, was fiddling with the arrangement of her veil, which hung long down her back and glistened in the lamp-light. Ginny was unmoving, her expression endearingly, heart-achingly solemn. She chewed her lip, and then turned her head to laugh at something Hermione must have said.   
  
She was beautiful, and grown-up, and he was going to marry her.   
  
"Oi!" Ron hollered. "Stop your dawdling, Potter!"  
  
Harry jerked, and spun his broom about, speeding away from the house with the captured ball. He knew he wasn't supposed to see the bride in her dress before the wedding day, but it hadn't seemed wrong, and she wouldn't have to know. It was a secret of sorts, which hugged itself inside him, and made him feel warm.   
  
~  
  
Later that night, after a roast dinner, Harry was lying on the living room floor in shorts and a T-shirt. It was far too hot for roast this time of year, but he couldn't resist Mrs Weasley's cooking, and had gone for second helpings too. The meal itself had been largely uneventful - Fred and George had sniped at each other for the duration until Mr Weasley hushed the both of them, at which point George muttered something about spending the night in London and had Floo-ed himself away. They'd become fairly used to this bickering between the twins. It had picked up the past fortnight, and it was all due to Fred's refusal to move out and see Angelina, but Fred was steadfast - he was staying put until he knew it was safe to retreat.   
  
Harry was alone, pleasantly enough. Fred was moping in his room, Ginny had gone to have a shower, Hermione and Ron had disappeared for a walk (Harry was sure they were off to the gazebo, they're old rendezvous point, but wisely said nothing), and Mr and Mrs Weasley were sitting on the front lawn, watching the summer stars.   
  
He was onto the last chapter of his book, feeling calm and sleepy and full, when a thump and a shout from the hall made him start. He sat up in time to see Ginny launch herself at him through the door between kitchen and living room, waving a fistful of papers and wearing a livid expression. She was also saying something along the lines of: "Why? Why?" He stood and got hold of her arms in time to stop her slapping him, but she continued to struggle.   
  
"What are you talking about?" he demanded finally, when he could get a word in.   
  
"What, don't you remember?" she retorted.   
  
"Ginny, what?"  
  
"These, Harry!" She pushed his hand from her arm and thrust the papers under his nose. He took them from her, desperately trying to think what he'd done to make her angry, and then felt his jaw drop as he understood what the 'papers' were. They were letters. Wedding R.S.V.P.s to be precise. And the first one read:  
  
Harry  
  
We accept your invitation.  
  
Vernon and Petunia Dursley.   
  
"Oh Merlin," he said faintly, as Ginny poked him in the chest.   
  
"Why?" she demanded. "Why would you invite them, and behind my back?"  
  
He couldn't reply yet. He turned to the next page. Filch, the Hogwarts caretaker. Obscure Weasley relatives. No terrible acquaintance had been left untouched. There was even a page-long acceptance letter from an obviously deranged Gilderoy Lockhart.   
  
"Gin," he said finally, his voice hoarse with shock, "I didn't send these."  
  
She narrowed her eyes at him.  
  
"I didn't! I swear I didn't! Why would I want the Durselys to - to come to -" He trailed off, feeling anger building in the region of his chest. He hadn't seen the Durselys since seventh year, and he thought about them as little as possible. Remembering his years living with them was not something he enjoyed, and more often than not he tried to pretend he hadn't grown up with them, that he'd only lived at The Burrow or Hogwarts, and that there were none of those eleven long years and six dark summers in his life. But seeing this brought it all back - the hate and the hunger and the horrible things they'd said and done to him. Nobody had the right to invite those bastards to his wedding, those nightmare figures of his past.   
  
"You didn't?" Ginny was saying. "Well then - who?"  
  
Harry clenched his jaw. He knew exactly who - and walked out to find them.   
  
When Mrs Weasley saw him coming, saw the determined stride and livid expression, she sat up properly and raised her eyebrows questioningly. Ginny hurried along behind, but he hardly noticed her. He hadn't felt this angry in a long time.   
  
"Why did you do this?" he said when he reached Ginny's mother, holding up the letters.   
  
"What are they?"  
  
"R.S.V.P.s! From people we didn't invite!"  
  
"No need to shout, dear," Mrs Weasley said reasonably. "I didn't think you'd mind. And I thought it might be nice for -"  
  
"For the Durselys to spoil our wedding?"  
  
"For them to see what kind of man you've become!" she said. Her tone was more protesting now. He could see that she obviously hadn't believed he'd be upset, and was taken aback by his anger, but he couldn't restrain himself.   
  
"This is a disaster! It's a disaster, and it's your fault!"  
  
"Now, Harry," Mr Weasley began firmly, having up until now kept his peace.   
  
"No," Harry said, eyes fixed on Mrs Weasley. "You have to stop interfering! This, the dress, everything. It's our wedding, not yours, and this" (he waved the letters) "isn't any of your business. Don't make it your business."  
  
"But I was only -"  
  
"Don't! I don't want you to!"  
  
Without another word, Mrs Weasley walked past him and back into the house. She was totally silent, her face strained. She was trying to maintain her composure. Mr Weasley followed her, giving Harry the evil eye as he went, and it was as he turned and watched their retreating backs that he felt the sudden rage fade, and a heavy weight of guilt in his stomach.   
  
He'd shouted at Mrs Weasley. He never shouted at Mrs Weasley. Perhaps once, when Dumbledore had died, but that wasn't like this. This had been wrong of him, no matter how angry he was. It had been wrong of her to invite those people, true, but she never meant to hurt him. She didn't know. And now - he'd hurt her instead.  
  
"Oh fuck," he said lowly, and Ginny rubbed his arm.   
  
"It's my fault, I worked you up," she said miserably, and Harry shook his head.   
  
"Don't. It's mine. I can't believe I yelled at your mum."  
  
"Neither can I," Ginny admitted.  
  
"She'll never forgive me." This was a panicking thought, and he spun to face Ginny as it came to him.  
  
"Don't be ridiculous," she said decisively, putting a hand to one of his cheeks. "She will. She loves you. She'll forgive you."  
  
He dropped his head. Maybe she would forgive him, but she wouldn't forget it, and that's what mattered. She'd always remember the time he shouted at her when she'd tried to help, and it would tarnish things between them from then on.   
  
"I suppose - it's not so bad," Ginny said, looking resignedly at the acceptance letters in Harry's hand.   
  
"They can't come," he said, more despairing than furious now. "The Durselys I mean. I can't see them again. And Filch? And - who is this, Great Aunty Mabel?"  
  
"She's totally mad, thinks she's a metamorphagus" Ginny said, and sighed. "What else can we do? You can't just retract a wedding invite."  
  
"You can."  
  
"It's impolite - and that's one thing we're not." He said nothing, and she nudged him.   
  
"Harry?"  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"We'll manage. It'll be OK."  
  
"How come you're so calm about this suddenly?"  
  
"One of has to be."  
  
She had a point. 


	8. Complicating Matters

A/N – Heeeeeeere's Johnny! OK, so it's been what, 8 months? Put it down to the crazy life I lived overseas, and the many difficulties I had with accessing , and the insane amount of work I was doing. I used what little time I did have to work on some writing projects of my own (thought I'd give old JK a break) but I found I really missed doing this, and 'communicating' with you guys. So – I'm back home now, and I thought I'd give it a shot and see if I could still do this! Forgive me if I'm a little rusty, or a little here and there with updates, but I'm gonna do my best, pull out all the stops and finish this fic for you. Thanks for your patience – my unending apologies to all I abandoned, 'twas never my intention … Respect, and lots of love xx Shez

Harry slept badly, rolling about on the comfy old Weasley mattress he shared with Ginny (it was well broken in by the many backs that had found their groove in it before him), and trying not to wake her while he fretted. He hated what he'd done, but he also hated what _she'd _done, Mrs Weasley, and he didn't know how to fix it. He fell asleep at last in the wee hours of the morning, and woke when Ginny poked him in the back.

"Oi. Harry, pancakes!"

"What's that?" he asked, voice muffled into his pillow, and she rolled him over with some difficulty, a wide grin on her bright-eyed morning-face. "Why are you awake?" he asked blearily.

"Why aren't you?" she retorted. "You're meant to be the early riser here."

Why aren't I? he thought, and then remembered, and groaned. "Your mum."

"My mum what?"

"Your mum made pancakes?"

"Exactly! Up!"

"I can't eat them, Ginny. I feel too guilty."

"What, about yesterday?"

"_Yes_, about yesterday."

"Don't be an idiot."

"I'm serious!"

"Then you _are _an idiot. It's _pancakes_, Harry, my mother's pancakes, and I'm not missing out on them over a meaningless tiff."

"It wasn't meaningless for me, and probably not for her either!" he protested, sitting up, and then lying immediately back down again. "Merlin, I'm exhausted."

"Alright," she said, shaking her head. "If you're really going to worry about this, then the very least you can do is go and talk it out with her. Come on, up, dressed. No forget that, just put your dressing gown on." She grabbed his hands and heaved him out of bed until he was upright.

"You just want those damn pancakes," he protested, but she ignored him and threw his slippers at his chest. He caught them automatically, and she turned and left the room, calling blithely behind her: "I'll meet you down there!"

He put the slippers away and dressed half-heartedly, digging up jeans, scraping fingers through his hair. He hesitated for some time over which shirt to wear, and eventually held two up to the mirror, one after the other.

"What do you think?" he asked.

"You're stalling, dear," the mirror said mildly. "And to be frank, they both need a wash."

He sighed, and wriggled into his blue T-shirt. The mirror was right, and so was Ginny. He had to talk this out with his mother-in-law-to-be – the closest woman to a mother he'd ever known – or it would just fester and turn into some kind of horrible Fred-Angelina style scenario where he spent all his time attempting to avoid her, or she him. No – he'd just put it all out there, hand over his humblest apologies for shouting, and hope that something could be done to repair things between them.

When he came downstairs and into the kitchen he found himself face to face with an entire table of Weasleys tucking into ridiculously tall stacks of pancakes. Weasley noses must be extra-sensitive to their mother's cooking, was all he could figure, because they'd all managed to drag themselves out of bed – Ginny, Fred, Ron and Hermione (an honorary Weasley, like himself) were all attacking their pancake-piles, and Mrs Weasley was about to start herself. A syrup-smeared plate on the counter led him to believe that Mr Weasley had been and gone.

"Morning," Harry mumbled.

Ron grunted. Mrs Weasley was the only one who looked up. "Harry," she said, rather breathlessly, brandishing a spatula. "Would you like some pancakes, dear?"

"Er – yes – yes, please – but –" He floundered, uncertain of the right words to use. Fred raised his head from his plate to eye him, clearly curious, and Mrs Weasley interrupted before her son could.

"Would you like to talk?"

"Yes," he said, mightily relieved. "Yes please, Mrs Weasley."

"What's going on?" Fred asked, spraying pancake over Hermione.

"Tha's foul, Fre'," Ginny said through a mouthful, and threw Harry an encouraging smile.

Hermione wiped a fleck of golden syrup from her nose. "Fred," she said witheringly, "that's incredibly unhygienic."

"Yes Fred, chew," Mrs Weasley agreed, as she made her way to Harry in the doorway. Fred frowned heavily and muttered something about his life being blighted with nagging women (Ron apparently didn't count, and was too absorbed in his food to object). Anyway, Harry didn't hear the rest. Mrs Weasley was pulling him out into the hallway, by the stairs, and holding both his hands.

"Dear, how are you?"

"Mrs Weasley, that's what I should be asking you," he said miserably.

"Don't be silly. I mean, I didn't think did I? I'm always just ploughing right ahead and ruining your plans."

"No, no!" he protested. "No, don't say that. I know you're only trying to help. Really. I mean – perhaps you could have asked us first. But I know that you always have the best intentions."

"And now I've ruined your wedding," she said, a small tremble in her voice, and he squeezed her hands.

"Mrs Weasley, please, I'm trying to apologise here."

He managed to look her in the eye, and she seemed genuinely perplexed. "I shouldn't have shouted at you. It was awful of me. I've just been a bit on edge with all the wedding stress, and Ginny was so upset, I lost my head. I'm sorry."

Mrs Weasley squeezed his hands right back.

"That's quite all right, Harry," she said. "I'm sorry too."

There were only a few times in his life in which he'd heard the s-word come out of Mrs Weasley's mouth. No matter what kind of preparation she gave him beforehand, it always took him ever so slightly by surprise.

"I don't want to have any more conflict about the big day, Harry. I want everything to go perfectly for you both. So you needn't worry. And while we're here," she said, after he was silent a few moments, "there's something I'd like to give you." She released one hand to dig into the pocket of her house robe, then turned his left hand over and pressed something into his palm. She took her hands away and he looked at what she'd give him. They were two gold cufflinks in the shape of owls, unmoving, eyes closed.

"For the wedding," Mrs Weasley said, when he still hadn't said a word. "They've been in the Weasley family for years. Arthur's mother gave them to him on our wedding day, and now – I want you to have them."

"Mrs Weasley, I can't," he said wildly, trying to give them back, but she frowned at him.

"Harry, it's tradition. We've both talked about it, Arthur and I. You're to give them to your son one day."

It was too much for her to give him this, especially after their row, but his protests fell on deaf ears. "You've six sons, Mrs Weasley, won't one of them …"

She snorted. "Those boys? I doubt they'll ever organise themselves enough to get married. Besides, you're the first, Harry. You're my first married boy, so you get first pick of the Weasley heirlooms."

"But – I'm not a Weasley!"

She placed a small hand on either side of his face and looked him firmly in the eye. "Of course you are, Harry. You're as Weasley as they come."

Harry couldn't speak at all then. He simply nodded, gripped the cufflinks in his hand, and chewed on his lip to keep from making a fool of himself. Mrs Weasley smiled, kissed him on the forehead, and then wiped away the mark left behind on his skin with one thumb.

"Dear me, I've made a mess of you," she said absent-mindedly. "Now that's real gold, Harry, so you must take care of it. I've some excellent polishing spells, when you want to give them a clean all you have to do is ask me. Now, in you go and help yourself to some pancakes, if the beasts haven't already eaten the lot. I'll be in shortly, must nip out for a moment."

Harry watched her bustle through the living room, wiping at her eyes surreptitiously, and then opened his hand as though to make sure the cufflinks were still there. When he next looked up, Fred was leaning in the kitchen doorway, grinning at him.

"What?" Harry asked, somewhat defensively, and Fred sauntered over to cast his gaze over the little gold owls in his palm.

"I could get you a very good price on those," he said eventually.

"Fred!"

"What?"

"You're hopeless."

"Exactly. That's why I don't get married. Or get heirlooms. 'Tis a cruel world, Potter, but I've learnt to live with it."

Harry felt vaguely guilty, and Fred must have caught something of it because his grin widened. He took a small step towards Harry as though about to clasp him in a hug, but then neatly tucked his head under one arm instead, and mercilessly ground a knuckle into his skull. With difficulty, Harry yanked his wand out of his pocket and managed to aim a Disengagement charm somewhere at Fred's person.

"Merlin's knees!" Fred swore, and leapt back, rubbing his lower belly. He narrowed his eyes at Harry. "Cheeky. Very cheeky. A few inches down, and that could have gone horribly wrong"

Harry shrugged and matched him grin for grin. His mood had suddenly hit the ceiling, and was still on the up.

"Anyway, I'm off," Fred said airily, passing him.

"Yeah?" Harry asked, watching the redhead fetch his dragon-skin jacket out of the closet by the door. "Had enough of me, have you?"

"Had enough of this house of women, more like. I'm off to find George and serenade myself back into favour."

"What about Angelina?"  
Fred's expression darkened. "Angelina," he said, shrugging into his jacket, "is sulking at her sister's flat. And I'm not leaving one house of women just to end up in another. If she comes around, tell her I'm in – I don't know, Brighton. Ooh, no, tell her I'm in the South of France!"

"The South of France?"

"With a model. Two models. And my own elephant." He passed Harry again, this time into the living room, and raised a hand over his shoulder goodbye. Harry heard him cry "Fred and George's swingin' bachelor pad", presumably into the Floo network, and smiled ruefully. Poor old Angelina, trying to hustle commitment out of one of the most stubbornly fancy-free men in London. He had a feeling it was a rather desperate case.

"Well, well," said Ginny, from the kitchen doorway. She was leaning against the frame as Fred had done, and he thought again how alike she and the twins were at times.

"Well, well," he returned, and went to her. "Pancakes good?"

"Of course. Conversation good?"

"Mm. Don't know. Your Mum ended up apologising, once I had, and then she gave me these."

He showed her the links, and Ginny gasped and examined them and exclaimed over the working of the owls as girls are wont to do with new things, especially gifts. After she'd looked at them all over, and pronounced them gorgeous, she gave him a kiss.

"Good morning," she said, smiling into his lips. "Sorry I woke you up. I smell pancakes and I go mad."

"It's alright." He kissed her again. "I'm glad we sorted it out anyway. Your mum and me, I mean."

"Don't worry about the invitations," she said, pinching him on the arm. "We'll find a way to fix it. I mean, we've got to. Even if we have to lock the Durselys in the attic for the duration."

He nodded once. "Yeah, I know. It'll be OK. I'm not really worried anymore."

And he wasn't, not just then. He went with Ginny back into the kitchen, pushing the cufflinks into his pocket. Their slight weight was somehow comforting.

Harry and Ron were sat outside, trimming their broomsticks, when the brief calm Harry had found was unceremoniously destroyed. It started with a shrill scream, then some feverous swearing, and then another outraged scream. Ron and Harry didn't move for a moment.

"That's not Hermione," Ron said eventually, over another string of curses.

"No," said Harry, "it's Ginny."

They looked at each other, and then started up, and went running back into the house. Harry couldn't suppress a sigh as they followed the high-pitched outrage (now joined by gasps and apologies from Hermione – what was going on?) upstairs. Was _anything_ destined to go right for any distinct period of time this summer? Was this going to be how the rest of their _lives _played out, this mess and complication and struggle, all the time?

Both boys stopped when they came to the hall. Ginny was standing outside their bedroom, holding rags in her hands, tears and frustration in her eyes. Hermione was perhaps a metre from her, falling over herself with apologies. Between them was Crookshanks. The cat turned and looked at Harry, and Harry could have sworn he saw satisfaction gleaming in those black feline eyes.

"What's happened?" Ron said, from the safety of their position at the top of the stairs. He didn't seem to want to get closer, and Harry couldn't blame him. The situation looked just a little scary.

"This is what's happened," Ginny said venenmously, and threw the pile of rags – white rags – at her feet. Crookshanks ducked out of the way and mewed a complaint. "I _hate you_!" Ginny shouted at him. "Go away!"

"Crookshanks, go," Hermione said softly. The words choked in her throat, as though she might cry. "I'm so sorry, Ginny. I'm so sorry."

Ginny took a deep, trembling breath and simply stared at the pile of rags on the floor. Harry, still confused, did the same, and soon he thought: _That's the same material as Ginny's dress_, and then: _Merlin, that _is _Ginny's dress. _Immediately, his leaden feet became light again, and he hurried forward to his fiancée.

"Oh, Harry," she said, as his arms went around her.

"My poor girl. I'm sorry."

She buried her face in his shoulder and then turned her head to speak against his neck. "It's ruined. My dress. Crookshanks got in and ruined it."

"Sh, it's alright," Harry murmured, just as Hermione began to speak again.

"I'm sorry, Ginny, I'm so horribly, awfully sorry, I can't even tell you." Ron had come to her too, and was standing behind with a hand on her shoulder.

Ginny whipped about to face her friend.

"Maybe you should have thought how horribly sorry you'd be before you let Crookshanks wander into our room."

"I'm sorry, I didn't know!"

"You should lock him up or something, he's a menace! I mean, look what he's –" Staring at the remains of her dream dress, she was speechless for a moment, but then swallowed and found voice once more. "Look what's he's done. He's ruined the wedding. He's ruined it."

"Now, that's just not true," Hermione said firmly, even as she swallowed a lump of apologetic tears. "That's simply not true, Ginny. We'll find a way to fix it. We will. You mustn't think it's all ruined."

"But it _is_!" Ginny wailed. "It is for me!"

"Gin, I –" she began helplessly, but Ginny cut her off with a snap.

"Don't, you'll only make it worse."

Ron placed his other hand protectively upon Hermione's shoulder and pulled her towards him. " Don't talk to 'Mione like that," he said, "it's not her fault Crookshanks is a vicious beast. You know we can't control him like a regular pet."

"Well maybe you should learn!"

"Well maybe you should remember it's just a _dress._"

"Ron!" said Hermione.

"What?"

"Yes, what?" Ginny demanded. "What can you possibly say to fix this?"

"Stop it!" Harry bellowed, very suddenly, over the three of them, as loudly as he might shout during a game of quidditch. They immediately fell silent to stare at him, each with varying degrees of belligerence in their expressions. Harry released Ginny and turned her around so that she faced him. "Ginny, it's terrible, of course it is. I know you're upset, but you mustn't pretend this ruins everything, because you know it doesn't. Don't you?"

Ginny bit her lip and eventually nodded.

"Owl to the woman today, she can probably fix it. Hermione?"

"Yes?" Hermione said, somewhat defensively, and Harry shook his head at her. "It's not your fault. So don't worry. Ron?"

"I get one?"

Harry raised his eyebrows. "Don't talk to your sister like that."

Ron shrugged, and then grinned as Harry grinned. "Merlin," he said, straightening his glasses on his nose, "you're like a bunch of third years, aren't you?"

Hermione and Ginny were no longer listening to Harry.

"Sorry," Ginny said quietly.

"Me too," Hermione said. "_Really_."  
And that was all it took. They shook off their respective men and went hurrying forward to clutch each other in a hug. Crookshanks wound about their feet, purring contentedly. The girls ignored him and held each other and talked about being sorry and what a shame and oh but never mind for quite some time.

"Well done, mate." Ron moved to stand by his side and watch their girlfriends make it up.

"It'll be alright," said Harry, doing his best to sound convincing. The truth was, now that he really looked at what had been Ginny's wedding dress, and saw how completely it had been ripped to shreds, he wasn't sure if there was any possible way to make it look as it had before.

For Ginny's sake, he hoped they'd manage something.

That night, Harry came back from a late-night flight (an attempt to clear his thoughts and relax for an hour or so) to a dark and silent Burrow. He assumed that the Weasleys had retired for the evening, so picked his way upstairs as quietly as possible, and opened their bedroom door with a minimum of creaking. Ginny was already in bed, lying on her side with her hair out and falling over her face a little. He carefully put his broom away, took off his clothes, tossed his glasses on the bedside table, and climbed into bed. She moved as she felt his arms slide around her waist.

"Hey," he whispered.

She didn't say anything, and he lightly tickled her stomach. "Hey," he said again, smiling, but there was still not response. "Gin. Ginny, are you awake?"

She made a small sound, muffled into her pillow.

"Gin. Come on, what's up?"

Very slowly, she rolled over to meet his eye. Her face was red and her eyes swollen with crying. She still had tears rolling down her cheeks.

"Oh, sweetheart," he sighed, and took her face in his hands, wiping away the tears with his thumbs. She closed her eyes, her face crumpling beneath his sympathy, and he kissed her mouth and salty cheeks and closed eyes, and stroked her brow until she calmed a little.

"Is this about the dress?" he asked, and she shook her head against the pillow.

"No," she said throatily, "not exactly."

"What is it then?"

"I don't know. It's everything. I owled the dress makers and they said they can't possibly fix it in time, and they can't refund our money either. And then all those awful people coming to our wedding, and Malfoy won't be there because of my family, and you really want him to be, and I know my mother is planning something, I can _tell_, and oh – just everything. Everything's just _wrong._"

He didn't know what to say to this. Things didn't seem nearly so dire from his point of view, but she was so upset that there must be some justification for her feelings. It was unlike her, this hysteria, and he couldn't quite understand it. She was usually so serene, but she'd been all over the place lately.

"Well – I mean, what do you want to do? Do you want to – postpone?"

"Oh, we can't, the invitations are out, it's too difficult."

"It's not if you want to do it."

Fresh tears pressed from her eyes. "I'm sorry, Harry, I don't know what's the matter with me." She sighed impatiently, and brushed the tears away. "I can't seem to – to calm down."

"Honey, take a deep breath."

She took a deep breath, and then another one. "It's going to be OK," he said, touching his forehead to hers. "Alright? It's going to be OK." He hesitated, and then asked her what he had to ask her, the same question that Ron had put to him not long ago. "You do _want _to get married, don't you?"

She exhaled and then nodded. "More than anything. More than anything, Harry."

He exhaled too, relieved. "Good."

"I don't know what's the matter with me," she said again, sounding genuinely bemused, and he pressed himself closer to her, skin on skin. He could feel her blood pumping.

"This wedding is going to be great. I promise. It's going to be the best day of your life. And I'm not going to let any little complications stand in the way of that."

They looked at each other for a long moment, and then Ginny kissed him hard, and he rolled over with her, and felt her heartbeat quicken against his.

Later, he watched her sleep, and hoped a fervent hope that he would be able to keep this promise to his future wife. For some reason, he felt he'd almost jinxed himself.


	9. Fitting Invites

Oh my God, it was really weird recognising some of those user names in the reviews! I totally remember you guys! Thanks so much for sticking around, and being so accommodating and positive rather than slapping me over the head for my long absence. Welcome to allnew readers as well, great to have you on board… Your exits are here, here and here, complimentary peanuts and warm towels will be provided shortly. Have a pleasant flight! Xx Shez

--

Seven days passed with surprising speed. Harry spent much of them running errands for Ginny – Flooing to the florist, to the dress shop, returning shoes, buying stockings of a slightly smaller length and width, owling people with instructions about location (The Burrow's backyard, which was more like an open meadow), gifts (either small useful things, or generous donations to the fund for the Radically Effected and Casualities Of Voldemort's Evil Reign – title didn't exactly roll off the tongue, but wizarding organizations have a thing for anagrams), and on, and on.

Ginny was working herself to the bone. He worried about her, but she wasn't in any kind of mood to listen to good advice. It was like her hysteria about the dress and the invitations had been replaced with a grimly determined drive – her wedding was going to work, by Merlin, like a finely oiled machine. Mrs Weasley remained studiously absent from most proceedings – it seemed she'd taken her conversation with Harry to heart. Instead, Hermione was Ginny's most trusty assistant, and sat with her for hours every day looking at lists and ticking things off with the beautiful plumed quill Ron had given her last birthday.

Hermione was stressed, but she wasn't like Ginny. Twice Harry had woken up in the night to find his fiancée scribbling feverishly in her wedding notebook, holding the tips of her fingers against her temples as though trying to press out a solution. Both times he'd managed to relax her a little, and coax her back to bed, but there was something wrong going on in her head, as though somebody had shaken it like a box of Every Flavour Beans, damaging all her usual grace and composure, and leaving her with this frazzled doggedness.

There was no point asking if anything was the matter. _Of course there was – she had a wedding to organise!_ See, he knew what her answer would be before even putting the question forward. Instead, he tried to focus on being as much use as he could, whilst at the same avoiding getting in her way.

Fred and George had made things up after their Angelina-related rowing and moved, for a time, back home. While it was encouraging to see them getting along so nicely, their presence in the Burrow (rather than in their much-loved London digs) did not sit well with Harry. They were always sneaking up and downstairs, or locking themselves into their room. Strange odours kept sliding out from under their door, and muffled explosions occasionally shook the walls. Stranger still, Mrs Weasley had made absolutely no complaints.

Harry managed to corner George on his way upstairs one morning.

"What are you doing up there?"

George widened his eyes and pressed a hand to his heart.

"Moi? Why, Harry, what are you suggesting?"

"Nothing. Just wondering."

"Well, you asked. We're having an orgy. Loads of fit birds. You should see the place, it's a mess."

"George."

"What, you want in?"

"George!"

The twin grinned and scratched his nose. "I'd tell you, Harry, but to be honest, I don't think you have clearance."

"Clearance?" He blinked. "So it's a secret?"

George seemed to think for a moment, and then nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, you could definitely say that."

Harry eyed him suspiciously. "Is this … wedding-related?"

George swallowed his grin, and assumed an expression of seriousness. "That," he said, "would be telling."

"But – George – you'd tell me, right? If it was anything major, you'd tell me?"

George carried on up the stairs. "I can't hear a thing, Harry," he said breezily. "You'll have to ask me once I've cleaned my ears out. Should be in a few weeks or so."

"How are Fred and Angelina doing?" Harry called after his retreating back, giving up on the old line of questioning. George answered without turning, his tone that of only vaguely masked exasperation. "You don't want to know, my boy. I don't bother. It's a saga of epic proportions these days."

He disappeared back into his room, and a thin cloud of smoke, presumably released when he opened the door, went rolling down the stairs.

Harry decided not to worry. It would be much easier that way.

Throughout all this, Ron had managed to evade any sort of participation in the wedding proceedings, holed up in his room or the broom-shed, or disappearing for long hours with his old fishing rod, and reappearing just as he was no longer needed. His luck lasted right up until Sunday morning, when Ginny went marching out to the shed, dragging Harry behind her.

She rapped on the door, and there was a brief silence before he called: "Yes?"

"Don't 'yes' me, get out here."

Another long silence. "Er – may I ask who's speaking?"

"Ron Weasley! You are a twit!"

"Oh, hello Ginny."

She tutted impatiently, and Harry stifled a smile. "Come on, you knew it was me already. Please, Ron, _please _will you come out?" She put on her best little-sister-in-need voice. "Please?"

His voice sounded closer when he spoke next. He had clearly moved to the door. "I'm busy," he said warily.

"Busy my eye!" Ginny exclaimed, and then composed herself somewhat. "Alright, fine. But honestly, how many times can you polish your broomstick in one day?"

Harry laughed out loud this time, and the door flung open. Ron had a broom in one hand, service kit in the other, and an outraged expression on his face.

"For your information," he said heatedly, "I _am _actually polishing my broomstick!"

"Yes, you were," she replied innocently. "That's what I said."

"'Were'?"

"You need a suit fitting. And you're going now, Ron. _Now._"

With her free hand, she grabbed hold of his sleeve, and pulled both boys across the lawn and back into the house. She ignored Ron's protests till they reached the fireplace in the living room.

"Shush," she said, over Ron's 'but I'm not even dressed properly!'. "I don't care what you're wearing. You could wear a paper bag over your thing and that would do me. I just need you to go and do it. Right now. Then it's done, isn't it?"

"Well … I guess it is, but – " he began, and she cut him off again.

"Exactly. This wedding is two weeks away. _Two weeks. _Enough messing about. Harry, here's some gold, for heaven's sake don't lose it."

"Of course I won't."

"I know, but just be careful. And mind Ron doesn't make a fool of himself."

"Of course I will."

"And make sure you're looking at the right suits when you –"

"Ginny," he said, gold safe in his pocket, and placing two firm hands on her shoulder, "I will. OK? Go and sit down for a second, will you? Have a cup of tea. I'll make you one now if you –"

"No, no, no," she said, and smiled a rueful smile at him. "I can't stop right now. I have to owl some more dress-shops about a replacement. But thanks. Give me a kiss."

Ron rolled his eyes, and Harry kissed her quietly on the lips, and then on the nose, and then they were gone, with a wisp of Floo powder and a roar of flame.

London was – well, London. Crowded, bustling, familiar, surprising. Ron perked up a little at all the activity around him, and pointed out various odd items in the shop windows along Diagon Alley with increasing enthusiasm. Harry didn't think Ron had been in London for a while – Allenhall University was right on the border of England and Wales, and although it was situated in a fairly busy town, there was still nothing like breathing London air, watching London natives wander by in their fashionable robes, and passing places like _Ollivander's_ that had been such reassuring constants in their childhood.

They finally found their way to _Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions. _Harry, when he entered, was hit with a sense of déjà vu that almost knocked him over. Immediately, he recalled the dark-panelled walls and the stool he'd stood on to be measured for his Hogwarts robes, a skinny little boy with glasses too big for his face. In fact, this was where he'd first met Malfoy, when the ex-Slytherin had been barely taller, and decidedly rat-featured.

"Wow," Harry said on a laugh, and Ron asked "What?", but Madam Malkin waddled over before he could formulate a reply.

"Harry Potter?" she said breathlessly.

"Er – yes?"

"My dear," she said, smiling broadly, her cheekbones rosy with pink blush. She took both his hands in her hers. "How _are _you?"

"Oh – you know, fine." He'd become used to strangers, particularly middle-aged women, doing this. They always looked like they wanted to take him in and give him a good feed, and perhaps a gentle prodding as to the nature of his glamorously tragic life.

"Your lovely fiancée owled ahead of you," she said, releasing his hands and hurrying off to her counter.

"Oh she did, did she?" Harry said, raising his eyebrows at Ron.

"Yes. She seemed concerned that you might not – how can I put this? – know what you were doing?"  
She beamed at them again, and then produced two hangers from behind the counter. They were covered in some kind of fabric, but at the very bottom he could see a bit of trouser-leg.

"We don't do a lot of business in muggle suits here," she said conspiratorially, "but for Harry Potter's wedding, we can certainly put something together. I imagine it will be quite the event! Now, do spread the word about where you purchased these, won't you darling? One can't get much better advertising than the word of Harry Potter!"

"Oh yes, Harry Potter," Ron said, grinning, "one must remember that."  
Harry elbowed him fiercely in the ribs, and Ron's amusement was replaced by a grimace of pain.

They tried the suits. Both fit to perfection, with none of the heavy, sweating, silly swirling-about-the-ankles he sometimes felt in a set of dress robes. Ginny had always wanted the bridal party in suits and dresses (the Muggle format for weddings had grown popular in recent years), and that suited him fine. For about the space of five seconds, Ron and Harry admired themselves in the mirror, and then declared the outfits to be fine. Before they could undo a button, however, Madam Malkin had Apparated herself to their very sides, exclaiming over the suits' splendid colouring for their skin-tone (black – truly splendid, that), and proceeded to have a good poke around with their cuffs and leg-lengths.

It was in this very attractive position, with an old woman pulling at loose threads between his legs, that Harry saw Ron freeze, and then heard a hearty: "Ron Weasley!" from across the store. He spun about. A handsome, broad-shouldered man with wavy blonde hair and a wide, bright smile was waving at them. He looked as though he was about to sail a yacht, or play polo or something. Of course, the nearest water was the Thames, and there weren't any polo grounds in central London, but he still managed to carry off the look and, even at this distance, project an air of health and vitality. The yacht/polo vibe – it was undeniable. How did he make his hair so shiny?

Ron wordlessly, automatically, raised a hand in return, and the man began to make a beeline for them.

"Who's that?" Harry asked out the corner of his mouth.

"Richard," Ron said faintly. "That's Richard."

"What, _the _Richard?" he whispered furiously. "Allenhall Richard? Richard who you hate because you think he's after Hermione, Richard?"

"Right."

Ah. Now he kind of got it.

"Ron Weasley," Richard said again as he reached them. "How've you been?"

"I'm – excuse me, Madam Malkin – yeah, sorry, I –"

"No trouble," she said, sitting up and patting his leg. "Aren't they wonderful? I'll wait at the counter."

She bustled away, and Richard looked expectantly at Ron, still waiting for his reply.

"Fine," Ron managed eventually.

"Great! And let me guess –" He turned to Harry and pointed a finger at him, grinning. Harry pointed back, a little confused, and Richard burst into laughter. "Ah, it's great to meet you Harry," he said, reaching out to shake his hand. "Hermione – and Ron, of course – have told me _so _much about you."

"Oh, er – well, you too. Great to meet you …"

"Richard Desmond."

"Richard."

"So, something special going on, lads?" he said, turning back to Ron, who had now thrust two trembling hands into his pockets.

"The wedding," he replied with an effort. "Harry's."

"Oh right!" Richard slapped his forehead exaggeratedly. "Hermione did mention it. Should have remembered. She's very excited, if I'm not mistaken. And you're marrying – Ron's sister?"

"Right, Ron's sister," Harry confirmed. "Ginny."

"Great. Congratulations. Great. When is it?"

"Ah – about a fortnight actually."

"Oh, some last minute organization happening here?"

"Yeah, me and Ron were last priority."

"Lots of people coming?"

"Quite a few, yeah."

"That's the way."

Brief laughter, and then a long silence of excruciating awkwardness followed. Richard was clearly waiting for one of them to speak, Ron was too inarticulate with irritation to open his mouth, and Harry didn't have a clue _what_ to say. It seemed that Richard was anticipating something, something in particular. Was it – an invitation? Harry looked at Ron, and Ron was staring at him, clearly thinking the same thing. Harry looked back to the quietly expectant Richard. This man was not going to invite himself along – but he had a feeling that he was quite determined nonetheless.

Merlin, this silence was long. It was killing him. And Richard knew it. Damn him. Harry was too much the well-trained English boy to bear this black hole in conversation, or blow past his hints. Instead, with the utmost reluctance, he said:

"Would – you like to come, Richard?"

"Oh, really?" Richard exclaimed eagerly. "It wouldn't be too much trouble?"

"Well, actually …" Ron began in a mutter, but Richard didn't seem to hear.

"Oh great, Harry, thanks! I'd love to. Listen, owl me the invitation – Hermione has my address, right Ron?"

"Right," Ron said. Harry heard him crack a knuckle.

"OK! Great! Good to see you guys. Hope to hear from you soon, eh? Say hello to Hermione for me, Ron – you look great in that suit, by the way. Knock 'em dead!"

With that, he was gone, and Madam Malkin yoo-hooed their attention.

"Come now," she called cheerily, "I don't want those suits dirty before the big day!"

Outside, Ron and Harry walked perhaps a hundred metres down the street, each carrying a suit-bag, without speaking. Every now and again, Harry would glance anxiously sideways to check on Ron's facial features, but they gave nothing away. It wasn't until Ron tripped up on a slightly raised bit of cobblestone that he cracked.

"Merlin!" he shouted angrily, and kicked the ground again. "I _hate _him!"

"I'm really sorry, Ron," Harry said. "Come on, move onto the pavement."

"Why'd you have to do that, Harry?"

"I don't know! Because it was polite, I guess. I couldn't _not, _when he was so blatantly waiting for me to ask, could I?"

"Bloody hell, yes you could have, Harry! Yes you could have!"

"I'm _sorry_, mate, really. But – look on the bright side."  
Ron spoke in acid tones. "There's a bright side now?"

"Sure," Harry said, fumbling for an answer. "Er – you get to show Richard that you're not scared of him, don't you?"

"I'm not scared of him!" Ron exploded, flinging his arms about. Harry, in fear for the suit (and his life, if Ginny saw any damage to them) took Ron's bag away and slung it over his own shoulder, gripping Ron's encouragingly with his free hand.

"I know that, Ron, but maybe he doesn't." He was warming up to this now, and beginning to think that he might actually be talking some sense. "What I mean is – well, he seems to like Hermione."

"Believe me, he does."

"Then you've got to show him that for you, he isn't a threat. That you know Hermione doesn't fancy him, and that you're not going to skulk about in the background making threatening faces at him while he moves in on her. Right?"

"I guess – right."

"So – show him you don't care! Be gracious with him at the wedding, and then let him see that you and Hermione are so solid, there's no point in his even trying. Yeah?"  
Harry felt quite chuffed. He'd managed to put a half-decent argument together in explanation for his moment of polite panic. Hermione would be proud.

Ron said nothing for a moment, and then sighed. He seemed almost to wilt a little, as though the fire had gone out of him.

"That's just it, mate," he said quietly. "Maybe he _is _a threat."

"Oh Ron, come on. You know Hermione wouldn't have a bar of it."

"I mean it," he insisted. "Did you look at him, Harry? I'm a bloke, and even I can see he's a Greek bloody god."

"You're not half bad yourself," Harry joked, but his best friend did not respond.

"Ron," Harry went on, just a little concerned now. "What exactly are you worried about?"

"I don't know," Ron said frankly, finally meeting Harry's eyes. "I just can't handle the thought of her leaving me."

To hear him state his fears so plainly rather took Harry aback.

"She's not going to leave you," he said, frowning, and then lurched forward a little as somebody knocked him in passing.

"Hey," Harry said, turning about, only to find himself face to face with Malfoy.

"Hey!" he said again, just as Malfoy exclaimed: "Potter!"

They shook hands, and then Ron and Malfoy nodded at each other with passing civility, and Harry remembered something.

"Aren't you meant to be in Prague?"

"Portugal."

"Whatever."

"Ah – yes, I was. I cancelled that."

Harry cocked his head to one side. "Oh really. I see."

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Come now, Potter, don't be like that. I _was _going to, but it all got too complicated, and I decided to loaf about in London for a while instead. Don't look at me like that, cancellation isn't a crime."

"No, guess not. Lying should be."

"No lies."

"Right. So you're in the country. I suppose that means you're coming to my wedding, Malfoy?"

"Oh, am I?"

"Of course. You said if you could, you'd be there, and look – now you can."

Ron opened his mouth at this, and then closed it again. Malfoy's gaze went over Harry's shoulder, met Ron's eye, and then moved away again, focussing on something in the distance.

"If I'm welcome," he said eventually, "then I'll be there."

"You're welcome, Malfoy," Harry said. "You always were."  
Malfoy paused, then nodded once. "Well. See you on the big day. The Weasley house?"

"Yeah, the Burrow."

"Alright. Take care of yourself."

Without another word, he moved past them. Just as Harry made to speak to Ron, Malfoy cut in.

"Potter!"

He was standing a few metres away, clearly having remembered something.

"Yes?"

"For tomorrow – happy birthday."

Then he turned on his heel, and strode away down the street.

"Am I imagining things, or is this 'invite Ron's worst enemies to the wedding' day?" Ron challenged. Harry was quick to retaliate.

"Don't, Ron, don't let's do the Malfoy thing again."

Ron held up both hands, as though surrendering. "Alright, I know, I've got him all wrong."

"Yes, you do."

"Harry, I might hold off for your sake, but my brothers will murder him."

"No they won't," Harry said, trying, as he spoke, to convince himself. "No they won't, or I'll murder _them._ He's my friend, Ron, and I want him there. The only reason he wouldn't come in the first place, and gave me all that crap about Portugal, is because he was worried about what all of you would say."

"So why would he change his mind now?"

"Well I don't know, Ron – you weren't exactly reassuring, were you? I think I had him in a corner, that's all. He couldn't bow out with another excuse, because I know he's here now. Anyway, I think he wants to be there, deep down."

Ron sighed another heavy sigh. "I'm sure. He'll also feel the pain of Fred and George's punches, Harry – deep down."

"Worry about that when we get there," Harry said, running a hand through his hair. "Merlin, what a morning."

"Tell me about it," Ron agreed gloomily, and Harry punched him lightly on the arm.

"Chin up," he said. "It's not all bad."

"Oh really?"

"Really. You've got a great suit, don't you?"

Ron gave a small half-smile. "That's true."

"Hermione'll love it – and I guess the gazebo will be engaged for the evening."

"Fuck off," Ron said, smiling wider now, and punched him back.

And for the moment, they put thoughts of Hermione in Richard's well-muscled arms, and the Weasley brothers at Malfoy's throat, out of their minds, and focussed on finding the nearest Floo grate.

In all the wedding confusion, Harry had yet again been close to forgetting that the 31st of July was not just any other day. Whoever would have thought, years ago, that Malfoy would be the first to wish him a happy twentieth birthday?


	10. Curveball

A/N – Sorry about delay. I've got this new job that sucks the life out of me. Hope you didn't miss me and the kids too much, I made this chapter a biggie. Shout out to all reviewers, who continue to pepper my days with encouragement and warm words. You make the wheels on my bus go round! PS – Guess who won two grammys? My boy, John! He's still got it … nm3x5s

Harry woke early the next day to the dulcet tones of Ginny cursing under her breath. With one bleary open eye, he watched her rummage through their bureau drawers, pushing aside shirts and socks and muttering: "Come on, Merlin's beard, where did I put it?" She was only wearing her quidditch jersey and knickers, and her hair was pushed back into a just-out-of-bed ponytail. The sight was quite engaging, actually, and he let her go on like this for several moments, grinning, before he felt compelled to speak.

"What are you doing there?"

She jumped and spun, a hand to her heart.

"Harry! Oh, go back to sleep!"

"Er – why?"

"Oh, bugger. Bugger, bugger."

"What?" He sat up a little and rubbed at his eyes until they were both open. "What's wrong?"

She shook her head. "Nothing. Just I know how early you wake up and I wanted to get your present."

His birthday. He'd been starting to think it was something serious. Harry broke into a slow smile and flopped back against his pillow. "Too late now, Gin. Have you lost it?"

"No," she said defensively, and then put a hand to her head and sighed. "It's too early. I can't remember – Ooh!"

She leapt towards the wardrobe, presumably having recalled her secret (too secret?) hiding place. Flinging open the doors, she commanded Harry not to look, and he obediently averted his eyes. He heard the shuffling of boxes and clothes slapping the floor, and then a quiet creak as Ginny eased shut the wardrobe door.

"Right," she said, returning to the bed, "you can look now."  
He did. She was sitting beside him, legs tucked up underneath her, and in her lap was a slender leather-bound book. He couldn't see a title.

"Happy birthday," she murmured and leant forwards to hand it to him, pressing a kiss to his forehead as she did so.

"Thank you." The book in his hands was very light, and it tingled, just a little, against his fingertips. "Can I –"

"Yeah, open it."  
He did and found himself, at the very first page, unable to go on. It was a photo of he and Ginny, very young, sitting together in the Gryffindor common room. It would have been Ginny's first year – the Tom Riddle year, the Basilisk year. He had a feeling Colin Creevey had taken this one. For once, he hadn't captured Harry in an expression of extreme agitation or embarrassment. This one had been taken with both Harry and Ginny quite unawares. The little dark-haired boy with the half-hidden scar on his brow sat cross-legged on the sofa closet to the fire, reading a book. The little sad-eyed red-haired girl sat beside him. She had a book in her lap too, but she wasn't really reading it. Every now and again she would raise her head to steal a glance at Harry, and then quickly glance away again.

"Wow," he said lowly, and met the grown-up Ginny's eye. She was smiling and blushing and biting her lip in that way she had, and he found himself looking from the photo to his fiancée and back again. "Look at us!"

"I know." She wriggled a little closer. "My first year."

"Yeah, I thought so. Did Colin –"

"Yep. I petitioned to a bunch of people for photos, and everyone was great. I couldn't believe how many times people had their cameras out."

He stared at her again. "You mean this is all – us?"

She sort of shrugged. "I thought it could be a – you know, like a companion album, to go with your other one. So we can remember why we're doing this – you know what I mean?"

Harry nodded wordlessly and flipped the page. He and Ginny were playing quidditch in the Burrow's backyard. He was attempting to wrestle the ball away from her. She was smiling and leaning into him and hugging the quaffle to her chest. Next page, his fifth year – he didn't remember anybody whipping cameras out at D.A meetings, but there they were, Harry's hand on her wand showing her the correct wrist-flick, Ginny's eyes a picture of concentration. By the Hogwarts lake last year, smiling for the camera, a little self-conscious this time, Harry's arms firm around her – Hermione had taken that. One of Hagrid's shots, Harry and Ginny stopped in a school corridor, leaning side by side against the wall, rather out of focus. In the kitchen in Harry's flat, Harry pulling a funny face. At one of Ginny's matches in Scotland. On and on. It was a catalogue of their life together, their life so far, and Harry found himself quite overcome with this sudden flood of memory.

"Come here," he managed eventually, and pulled her close. She wriggled up against his side and hugged him tight, and kissed his bare chest.

"Do you like it?"

"I love it."

"I'm glad. Happy 20th, Harry." She hesitated. "And sorry I've been so – here and there lately. I don't mean to, I just – I'm stressed out, and – "

"I don't know what you're talking about," Harry interrupted firmly. She smiled a small smile at him, and nodded once.

"Aren't they great shots?" she said.

"They are. We're so photogenic."

"I know." She matched his grin and tilted her head to look up at him. "That's not my only present, you know."

He raised his eyebrows. "Oh?"

She sat up and straddled him in one swift movement.

"Oh," he said, attempting to smother his smile. He assumed an expression of absolute innocence. "So what is it then?"

"What's what?"

"My other present."

She rolled her eyes and placed her hands on his shoulders. "Buddy," she said, leaning close, and pausing just a few inches from his face, "you're in for a _very _happy birthday."

With that, she closed the gap between them and kissed him slowly. Her lips were hot and soft and he was so relieved to have her as she used to be, and to feel her against him (it had been a little while – she tended to fall asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow recently), that he could barely control himself. His hands were at her jersey, pulling it over her head, and her mouth was moving southward, kissing his neck, her tongue raising goosebumps and other things. She kissed right down to his chest, and then his stomach, and when she came to his lower belly and her hands reached the elastic on his boxers, he was practically in a fever.

At this point, she sat up and looked at him with a very strange expression on her face.

"What?" he asked, his voice strangled and breathless. "_What?_"

Without another word, she leapt out of bed and ran from their room. He swallowed a moment, attempting to control himself, and then swept back the covers and followed. He was just quick enough to see her ducking into the bathroom. He came to the door – she had left it slightly ajar – and knocked gently.

"Ginny?" he whispered. "Can I come in?"

Her response was the sound of vomit rushing into the toilet. He decided that this was a 'yes' and entered, closing the door carefully behind him. She was leaning over the toilet, her beautiful hair held back with one hand, her face deathly pale. She seemed about to speak, but then another wave of nausea must have hit, because she started up again, retching into the bowl. Harry knelt beside her and stroked her hair and rubbed her back. For about five minutes, she continued to retch and pause, and then she sat back on her heels and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Harry fetched her a glass of water. She drank in silence.

"What was that?" Harry asked eventually.

Ginny shook her head, and still said nothing.

Harry, watching her, had a sudden, sharp thought that made him physically start. Before he could really consider it, or put any sort of question to her, she was standing and shrugging and moving to the basin to wash her face. He stood too, and stood by her cautiously, as though afraid she might faint or vomit again.

"I've been feeling weird for a while," she began chattily, drying her face with the hand towel. "I think I'm getting sick. Like one of those stomach bug things maybe, or a fever. Let's hope I can get rid of it before the wedding. Merlin, those viruses are awful, aren't they?"

Harry looked at her for a little while before voicing the thought that had come to him.

"Are you sure it's not – something else?"

Ginny's eyes met his very quickly, and they held each other's gaze. Eventually she spoke. "Wouldn't I know?"

"I don't know," Harry said quietly, "would you?"

Ginny stared at herself in the mirror, and brushed the hair out of her face. For a few moments, she seemed not quite conscious of herself. Then she glanced back to Harry and said, a little desperately: "But we're safe, all the time."

"Of course, you're right," Harry agreed. "You couldn't be."

For a time they were silent, reviewing all their recent trysts. And then, simultaneously, they remembered their lovemaking in Harry's room weeks ago, on the last day of school at Hogwarts.

The silence stretched on and on, and finally Harry touched her arm, and she murmured: "I'd better get checked."

He said, "OK."

The newly-risen morning sun beamed a little light into the bathroom, and then she walked out, leaving him with too many thoughts for an early birthday morning.

There was nobody to corner Harry with wedding plans that morning and so he dusted off his broom and went for a fly across the countryside. He felt almost guilty in his aimlessness – there was so much to do, but he couldn't get his head around any of the chores that had so occupied him yesterday. Instead there was a single, huge, unmovable thought in his brain. It would not be silenced. It would not be buried. It sat in all its towering, mind-blowing unexpectedness and waited for him to address it.

He couldn't. Not quite. He could think of it, of course – it was all he could think of. But he couldn't think _about _it. It was like coming to the foot of mountain and only being able to see how big it was, rather than how he was to find a path over it.

Harry touched down in a quiet place by a quiet stream, and did not realise until some minutes had passed that it was the same place where Ginny and he had argued so terribly, years ago. He'd told her that he'd slept with Susan, she'd told him that she hadn't slept with anybody, and at the time it all seemed so wildly important. Since then, sex had become such a constant, simple, natural thing between them that he had almost forgotten its possible consequences. He no longer gave much thought to the power it really had, and the importance they had been so aware of in their youth.

They were still in their youth. He was only a few hours past twenty.

_It could still be nothing_, murmured inner monologue, attempting to reassure. _It could still be a virus, or gas, or anything. _

Harry flew back to the house to find Hermione and Ron sitting in the kitchen, and Mrs Weasley in the process of icing a cake.

"Harry dear!" she said as he came in the door, momentarily pausing in her work. "Where have you been?"

"We thought you were upstairs," said Ron, smothering a yawn. "Hermione made me get up and everything."

"Ron," Hermione said, and nudged him. "Don't be ungracious. Happy birthday, Harry!"

"Happy 20th birthday, mate."

"Yes," said Mrs Weasley, her eyes crinkling with a smile. "Happy birthday." She wiped her sugary hands on her apron and opened her arms. "Come here and give us a hug."  
Harry felt as though he were in a trance. He went forwards to Mrs Weasley and near fell into her embrace. He hugged her so fiercely that he began to feel Hermione and Ron's eyes on him, and disengaged. Mrs Weasley brushed a bit of hair out of his face with an expression something like concern, and he forced his mouth into a smile. This was _not _something they needed to know. This wasn't something that could be talked out around the table. This was far too big to display before them all, to be picked apart and gasped over and discussed.

This, in short, was private.

"Thank you," he said, swallowing over his dry throat. "Thanks. Just went for a fly. To loosen me up a bit, you know, for the festivities. What's the plan?"

"Where's Gin?" Ron asked suddenly, frowning.

"Er – London."

"She went to London already? It's only nine o'clock!"

"Why didn't she ask me?" Hermione wondered aloud, sounding mildly put-out.

"Oh," Harry said hurriedly, "you know what she's like these days. Something about the flowers, or the napkins, or I don't know what. She was out of here by seven. I expect she'll be back this afternoon."

"Well, what do you want to do?" Hermione asked, eyes brightening. "You want a big picnic? I'll even get the twins to come. They've been stuck in their room for days."

"Oh – no, I don't want to go far today." He was worried that Ginny might come back and he wouldn't be there. "What about lunch here? Just a quiet one. Just us, and the twins, and – and Gin when she's home."

"Harry, are you alright?" Mrs Weasley said quietly, and he met her eye immediately, knowing how quickly her suspicions could be aroused.

"I'm fine," he said easily. "I'm tired, is all. And kind of hungry."

"Tired, eh, birthday boy? You shouldn't fly so early. Don't want to wear out the old broomstick, there." He caught Ron's gaze, and his best friend winked lightly, so that his mother wouldn't see. Harry shrugged off the sexual innuendo (it stung him this morning, when before he would have grinned), and Mrs Weasley bustled about in the pantry for some biscuits, and Hermione laughed as Ron whispered in her ear.

He was such a mess inside. He wished Ginny was here for him to hold.

Lunch was set up at the outside table. Hermione managed to entice the twins out of their room with promises of seconds and thirds, and apple crumble for afters, and they emerged with scented vapours. Nobody bothered to ask what they had been doing. They enchanted cutlery to dance across the table, and the salt- and pepper-shakers to sing a repeating chorus of "For he's a jolly good fellow". Ron and Hermione set out the good crockery, and seemed happy, chiding each other gently, Ron touching her hair. Harry watched it all, and helped where he could, and was somewhere else entirely.

The only time the mood died a little was as they finished the table set-up and were waiting for Mrs Weasley's meal to arrive. Fred and George were passing a quaffle to each other from opposite ends of the lawn, and Harry was watching. That's how he came to see Fred stiffen and stare at something beyond George – just as a long, fast pass came towards him. Naturally, he was hit in the head with the ball, and both twins fell to the ground, one in laughter, one in pain. When George had composed himself, he sat up to look for his brother, but found that somebody had beaten him to it.

Angelina had been walking up behind George, broom in hand, and Fred had been quite immoblised. Hence the lack of hand-to-eye co-ordination. Now she walked right by George, and knelt beside his twin, who had both hands over his face.

Harry had stood up when Fred toppled, and moved a little closer. He watched Angelina watching Fred, who eventually moved one hand aside and peeked out at her.

"Ouch," he said.

"Are you OK?"

"You distracted me."

"Did I?"

"Yes. You did."

"Never mind. Sit up, show me your face. Oh dear, that's going to bruise. Shall I fetch ice?"

"No," Fred said hurriedly, unconsciously grabbing her arm, and then very consciously removing it. "No, don't bother. I'll take it like a man. Silently, with a side of alcohol."

"Poor Fred," she murmured, and put a hand to his forehead. He stared at her with something in his eyes that Harry hadn't seen before, something almost – unfocused. Slowly, she leant towards him, and Harry found that he was close enough to hear what she said.

"Why didn't you come and see me? I waited and waited."

A long silence, and then Fred, still looking at her with that look, said: "I'm sorry, Angelina."  
There was a quiet, surprised whistle nearby. George had moved to Harry's side to better hear the conversation. "I haven't heard him apologise in a very long time," said George. "Especially not in front of company."

"Did you know she was coming?"

"Merlin, no. Believe me, I don't get between those two. This – this she did on her own."

Angelina and Fred were still locked in eye-contact, and Harry began to feel that he was intruding. George appeared to have the same thought, because as one they turned on their heels and headed back to the table.

"Gods be praised," muttered George. "This has been a bloody long time coming."

"She really must have missed him, to just turn up like this," Harry said thoughtfully. George smiled just a little, and threw himself into a chair.

"She figured him out, that's all. Of course he missed her like hell. Of course he wants to be with her. For Fred, it's the principle of the thing. That's what she figured out. He _has _to protest, and make stupid jokes, and cling to his bachelorhood – he doesn't know how to do anything else, or what people would think of him if he changed. But deep down, he knows he wants her. And if she can turn up here despite all that – if she can accept that he finds it bloody hard to admit to these huge, deep feelings, and accept that she's his only girl forever, and always has been – then he knows she understands him. I think they're going to work out just fine."

He leant back in his seat and put his hands behind his head while Harry blinked.

"Wow George," he said eventually. "You two are just full of surprises."

George rolled his eyes. "Being a twin is like being a shrink," he said. "You know far more than you ought to about another human being. It's disturbing. I mean, ask Fred about my secret fears or masturbation habits and he'd be able to tell you exactly what was behind them." He paused and glanced sideways at Harry. "Actually don't ask about my masturbation habits. Those are very private matters between myself and my hand."  
Harry cracked a smile and George raised his eyebrows. "Well, well," he said. "Somebody's finally remembered it's his birthday. What's the matter, you leave your happy face in your other shirt this morning?"

"No, I'm just tired," Harry repeated, even as Mrs Weasley bustled out of the kitchen surrounded by plates and serving dishes. "Oh!" she exclaimed, seeing Fred and Angelina sitting together in the grass. "Oh, is that Angie? Oh, wonderful! George, fetch me another plate will you? And where on earth is Ginny?"

Ginny turned up as they were finishing dessert. Harry spotted her immediately, almost stood, then thought better of it. She came out the kitchen door with her bag still on her shoulder, wearing tight jeans and a t-shirt. She looked fantastic, and he felt a small nervous rise in his stomach as he wondered if they'd both been very wrong about the events of that morning, and it really was a virus.

She looked up, scanned the table and, spotting him, mouthed his name. He couldn't help but stand then.

"Harry?" Mrs Weasley began, sounding puzzled, and he ran a hand through his hair.

"Er – Gin's here."

Every head at the table turned to look at her. For a moment she stared at them like a rabbit in wand-light, but then she raised one hand in a casual wave and called: "Sorry I missed lunch!"

"Virginia Weasley, you get over here and eat, if you please!" said Mrs Weasley. "I won't have you missing meals. And you ought to apologise to Harry. It's his birthday, for heaven's sake!"

"Yeah, Ginny," called Fred, who was a little drunk (on Pimm's or Angelina, or both). "Poor Harry, and his birthday and all, and him not having any family but us to celebrate with." He took another spoonful of dessert. "And this peach cobbler," he added, "is _terrific._"

Harry was still standing, and Ginny was not making any move towards the table.

"Don't worry, I'll go, probably something with the – the wedding or – thank you for lunch, I'll just – I'll be a couple of minutes."

"Harry, what …" Hermione began, but he didn't stop to answer. In fact, he nearly tripped over his chair in his haste. Within moments, he'd reached Ginny, who wouldn't look him in the eye.

"Come on," she said, and they began to walk across the yard. As soon as they were out of sight of the table, she picked up the pace, and led him right into the midst of the garden. He didn't realise where she was taking him until they were almost upon the place – it was the little grove they'd found whilst de-gnoming, the one she and Ron had enchanted to disappear as children. It did not take long to find it, Harry having removed the years-old charm on the place, and he was soon following her into the cool green-lit room.

Then they were alone, more alone then they'd been in weeks.

She turned to face him. He couldn't say a word – his heart was in his mouth.

"I am," she said.

"You are what."

"Pregnant. A month."

A long silence followed and then he felt his blood rushing to his extremities – his head, his fingertips – and his body began to buzz. He almost laughed, and then he frowned, and then he broke into an incredulous grin, and broached the distance between them with two long strides to fold her up in his arms.

"Holy shit," he said into her hair. "Merlin. Merlin, Ginny."  
He held her a little away from him, that stupid, disbelieving grin still plastered across his face, but her hands went on clutching his waist. They held him far too tightly, in fact, far too fearfully, but at that point he was barely articulate, let alone aware of the little nuances of body language in his fiancée.

"Oh my God. You're pregnant. That's early, right, to be having morning sickness, a month? That's early, isn't it? Is he sure? Or she? Is she sure?"

"It's early, apparently, but not uncommon," said Ginny. Her voice was shaky and she bit her lip hard. "Not uncommon, that's what she said."

"Oh my GodYou're pregnant. Oh shit, that's – Merlin, that's – we're going to have a baby? We're going to have an actual _baby?_"

He started to laugh, just as Ginny started to cry.

"Honey, what's – hey, come on, what's the matter?" He caught her by the chin and she finally met his eye.

"We're not going to have a baby, Harry," she said, choking back a sob. "_I _am."

His smile had faded by now. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that I'm _frightened, _Harry!"

"Frightened, but – it's all totally safe, isn't it? I mean, these days? Nothing could happen to you, could it?"

"Merlin, you don't understand!" She turned abruptly on her heel, walked three steps away from him, and then turned back again. "I'm nineteen, Harry. I'm already getting married at bloody nineteen, and now – now a baby? _Now? _Most girls my age are busy dating and partying and …"

"Wait, hold on," Harry said, raising a hand as if he might stop traffic. His pulse was racing with anxiety. "What are you saying here? Are you saying – what, you don't want to get married?"

"No, I do. Of course I do."

"You wish you were out dating other people?"

"Harry, for God's sake, that's not what I mean – of course I want to get married to you, I love you. I love you so much." Her face crumpled and she had to pause for breath and tears, but she pressed on, as though the words must come out. "I just don't want this to be happening. I don't want this at all."

That was all she managed before the tears took over altogether, at which point she covered her face with both hands and cried into her palms.

Harry couldn't bear to see her like that, so hopelessly unhappy. He gathered her into another fierce hug, with minimal resistance on her part.

"Don't cry, Gin," he said. "Please don't cry anymore."

"I c-can't stop."

"Take a deep breath."

"No, I can't."

"Come on, now."  
She took a deep breath, and then another one, and another one, until her weeping had slowed and she had mastered herself somewhat. Harry felt it was the moment to talk sense.

"It doesn't matter what we might have planned now, Ginny," he said quietly. "We can't change what we did, or what happened, or anything. We can only make the best of it."

He couldn't see her face because it was hidden against his chest, but when next she spoke her voice sounded almost hollow.

"I wanted to see the world, and go exploring, and play quidditch. Maybe even play for Oliver again, like he wants. How can I play quidditch with a big pregnant belly, or a little kid? How can I visit Europe and America and Australia when every second I'm looking after a baby, when every penny we have goes towards it? How can I decide what I want to do with my life if it's already decided for me?"

She released him and moved away, examining the old corduroy couch, the cracked hairbrush, the artefacts of her rapidly disappearing youth.

"I don't know," Harry said awkwardly. "All I know is that this baby is ours, and we should be glad to have it. That's all I know."

She looked at him with an expression he could not begin to read, and her eyes were full of tears and desperation.

"You don't understand," she said again.

And then she left him, standing alone with his confusion in the old secret fortress of her childhood.


	11. Feeling Fear

A/N: I loved your reviews this week, most insightful … but do you really think Gin would cheat on Harry? Come on, I'd never let her do that to our favourite orphan! Peace out guys, hope you like this one Xx S.

The next week passed in a strange, disconnected blur. Outwardly, he and Ginny behaved as though nothing had changed, and talked calmly in front of the Weasleys about wedding plans, R.S.V.P tallies, possibilities for the dress (Ginny still hadn't found an appropriate replacement), and desserts at the reception. They still smiled at each other, and ate dinner together, and slept in the same bed. Every day they played out an elaborate illusion of ordinariness, but for Harry it was an entirely transparent veneer. It wrenched at him, this sudden sweeping turn in their relationship. He had never been anything other than himself with Ginny. He had never faked it so terribly. He closed his eyes at night but barely slept. He lay awake in the early mornings listening to her vomiting in the bathroom, and cursed himself for not having the courage to simply bring it up and have the whole thing out with her. Still, he might be forgiven for his reluctance. The many times he'd tried all followed something like this:

"Ginny, I wanted to –"

"Hang on, I'm writing something."

"Alright."

Long pause in which she clearly hoped he might leave. He did not. She put her quill down.

"Yeah?"

"I wanted to talk to you."

"Now?"

"Yes, it's – about what we were talking about – the other day."

"The other day?"

"Yes, you know. The _thing _we were talking about."

"I don't …"

"Yes you do."

"I'm rather too busy to talk now. Could you run this list over to Hermione for me? She should be in the kitchen, or maybe she's with Ron outside. It's really important, we're just confirming with the furniture hire people exactly how many chairs and tables we'll need. I mean, it's really important. You can imagine what would happen if we were short twenty chairs or so. Could you do that for me? Thanks."

Following this slightly rushed speech, her head went back to her papers, and he was left speechless and hopeless, and doing her chores as though she didn't have his baby in her belly.

Harry knew trying to force a confrontation wouldn't get him anywhere much with Ginny. It would be the same if the situation were reversed. She was proud like him, and stubborn. He'd always loved that in her before, but now it was infuriating. He knew that he ought to wait it out a while, but he'd always found it so difficult. And this wasn't something trivial, a missed quidditch match, too much overtime – this was life-changing stuff, and she was pretending like she hadn't felt the speed-bump.

He tried not to touch her. They lay next to each other in bed, and said goodnight in the dark, and lay with their skin centimetres (or was it miles?) apart. He stung with longing for her, just to touch her hand, her sweet mouth, the gentle up-down rise of her chest, her long, lean legs, but how could he with this dark secret so huge and still between them.

Really, he knew why he lacked the bollocks to 'have it out with her', despite her reluctance, despite her false smiles. It was true that he could have kept on until she cracked. In actual fact, he was frightened of the things she'd said. She'd seemed so entirely disturbed by the idea, so desperate with her broken dreams. He had a terrible lingering fear in his mind that if he forced her to talk about the baby, she would come to the conclusion that she wanted to – well, make it disappear altogether.

He didn't think he'd be able to bear that. Thinking of her taking away what they made … it just seemed such an awful waste of love. And love was something he knew ought to be seized with both hands, at all opportunities. In his life, it hadn't always been in long supply.

He wished he knew what to do to make things right. He just wanted it all to be OK again.

On the weekend, Harry woke to find himself alone in bed. He listened briefly for the sound of his fiancée hard at work in the toilet bowl, but heard nothing. He sat up, rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, patted his crazy hair and blinked at the room.

It was empty. He could hear birds outside and the sun was attempting, with pleasant perseverance, to pierce the curtains.

He swung his legs out of bed and frowned as his brain shook off its tiredness. Perhaps Ginny was making breakfast – he looked at his watch._ The rooster hath long since crowed_, it read.He'd woken later than usual. That made sense; he'd tossed and turned right into the wee hours. His body must have taken some extra time to catch up.

He pulled on clothes and headed downstairs for the kitchen. It was empty too, although freshly baked banana muffins were cooling by the stove. He presumed that Mrs Weasley had made them up for breakfast, and ate one while his thoughts circled with a little more speed. He poked his head out the back door. Fred and Angelina were doing a spot check of their brooms, presumably before flying out.

"Morning," Harry said.

Fred glanced up. "Morning, son. Sleep well?"

"Fine," Harry lied. "You?"

"Not a wink," said Fred.

Angelina slapped the back of his head, but Fred was unfazed.

"Cor, muffins!" he said, before Harry could go on. He made a move towards the kitchen door.

"Fred, we'll miss the current!" Angelina protested.

"Just one?"

"You can't eat and fly."

"How would you know?"

"You're just not co-ordinated enough, lad."

"I'm fairly co-ordinated," he grinned wickedly, and she couldn't help but grin back.

"Fairly co-ordinated, yes," she acknowledged, and he nodded.

"That's what I thought. One muffin?"

"If you like. May I have one too, then?"

"You certainly may not. All guests starve when they come to the Burrow. If you feed them, they'll just come back."

She laughed helplessly, and Fred came inside on a direct beeline for breakfast.

"Seen Ginny?" Harry managed, finally, to ask.

"Who?" he said, mouth full.

"Your sister. Ginny."

"Oh, Ginny. Sorry mate, just a bit dazed what with all the make-up sex."

"I didn't need to know that."

"But aren't you glad you do now?" He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Harry, I'm telling you, I just had the most fantastic night of my _life. _No kidding. Better than when we stuck it to Umbridge. Better than when our shop was listed in _Which Warlock_ as hottest new business of the year. This girl, mate – this girl's just – I've been a total fool, haven't I?"

"Tell me about it," Harry said. "Have you seen Ginny?"

"Haven't seen her per se. Thought I heard her knocking about down here at some ungodly hour. She might have been Flooing herself actually, I can smell a bit of charcoal in the air."  
Harry could too, now that he'd pointed it out. But where on earth would she be Flooing herself at that hour, without even mentioning her plans? They might be having problems, but she still told him where she was going, even if it was only down the road to the village, or out in the next-door field.

"Fred!" came a call from outside. Fred grabbed another muffin and headed for the door.

"She'll turn up," he said cheerily. "I'm off, lots of flying to do, lots of frolicking in fields and so on."

He was out the door like a shot, and Harry saw he and Angelina kick off within moments, swooping carelessly about each other and up into the sky.

He had an eerie sense of foreboding now, and went to find Hermione. First stop was Ron's room, and sure enough his light knock produced her at the door. She was in a sweet cotton nightie and her hair was thrown up into a wild bun. Beyond her, he could see Ron sprawled asleep in their rumpled bed sheets.

He must have looked rather frazzled, because a concerned: "Harry, what is it?" was her immediate reaction.

"No, nothing at all," he said immediately, rather too quickly.

"Alright honey?" Ron mumbled, and she called "Yes, fine," back to him.

"Are you sure?" she said, and then came out the room, shutting the door behind her. "You look upset."

"I'm not upset."

"Then what is it?"

"I'm just looking for Gin. I don't suppose you've seen her?"

"No, I've been reading. Haven't even been to the loo yet."

"She didn't come in to see you? She didn't mention a trip to London or anything?"

"No, Harry."

Thoughts raced through his brain now, and none of them good.

"What is it?" Hermione asked quietly. Her eyes searched his face with the same piercing, intelligent gaze she'd had her whole life.

"I'm just a bit worried, 'cos she didn't say a thing to me about –"

"I don't mean today. I mean this week. There's something going on with you two, and I can't put my finger on it."

"Nothing's going on," said Harry, striving to maintain a semblance of calm. "We're fine. Are you fine?"

"Yes, but I'm talking about you."

"Well we're both fine, like I said."

"Will you tell me what's going on, for heaven's sake? Ginny keeps coming up to me as though about to ask some terrible favour or make a confession, but as soon as she opens her mouth all I hear is stupid gossip or trivial things about the wedding. You've been walking around with a pretend smile on your face and I haven't seen you even hug Ginny since last weekend. What on earth is happening? Did you row?"

"It's nothing," Harry said distractedly, and turned away from her. "Listen, go back to bed, I'm sorry I disturbed."

"Harry!"

He went marching off down the hall, and knocked on the twins' door.

"Is that Fred?" came George's voice.

"No, it's Harry."

There was an immediate scuffling and hushed whispers, and then the door opened a crack and Mrs Weasley's head became visible.

"Oh, hello," he said, rather taken aback.

"Hello Harry. Just having a bit of a chat with George. Are you alright?"

"Er – have you seen Ginny?"

"I haven't, no." She turned to look back into the bedroom, which was hidden from Harry's sight. "George?"

"Nope," said George, and then Harry heard him drop something, and (bizarrely enough) a bright crackling sound. "Blast! Oh, Merlin's knees – Mum, quick, help me with –"

"Must dash, dear, I'm helping George with some – some very important product experiments. Why don't you ask Ron?"

And just like that, she slammed the door shut and Harry was left with an odd mixture of confusion and rising anxiety in the pit of his stomach.

He went back to his room. Ginny had not materialised. Who else was there to ask? Mr Weasley, he presumed, was holed up at the Ministry. He was home very little, weighed down with responsibility and bureaucracy. Fred and Angie were out, Ron and 'Mione were probably shagging by now, and George and Mrs Weasley were clearly engaged in some kind of clandestine activity.

Harry sat down on their bed and briefly allowed his panic to surface. Where had she gone? And what was she doing? He put both hands in his hair and tried not to let one thought in particular voice itself, but it wouldn't be silenced. His inner monologue asked the question with painful matter-of-factness.

_Has she gone to have something done about the baby?_

Immediately he stood, strode to the door, strode back to the bed, to the window, back to the door, and back to the window again. Then he took a few deep breaths and considered his options. It seemed a logical explanation, as much as he didn't want to believe it. Why else wouldn't she breathe a word to anyone, not even Hermione? It wasn't at all like her.

_I'll go to London_, he thought.

_And do what?_ asked his monologue._  
Find her! _

_How?  
I'll – check the directory for medi-witches._

_Do you think you're in the Muggle world? Wizards don't have directories! Do they? _

_I'll ask Mrs Weasley who her doctor is._

_You can't, she'll panic and think her daughter's sick._

_Then I'll walk the streets and go into every medical centre I see. I'll go into St Mungo's. I'll search every floor._

_That won't get you anywhere. How can you see every doctor in London and expect to find her before – before – _

"Before it's too late," he muttered, and then banged his head against the window. He was frustrated, and desperate, and having conversations with himself. But what else could he do? What else could he do? All he knew was that if he didn't do _something_, and soon, he was going to go stark raving mad …

Just like that, he snatched up his broom and half-ran to Ron's door, banging on the panelling so that it shook. There was a pause, and then Ron came to the door rubbing his eyes.

"We're still sleep–" he began, but Harry cut him off.

"Come on. Get your broom. Quidditch."

"What?"

"Quidditch."

"_What?_"

"Quidditch, quidditch," Harry repeated irritably. "Come on, let's play. Where's your broom, I'll get it if you want. Put some clothes on."

Something in the crazed set of Harry's eyes must have made Ron's mind up for him, because he sighed heavily and said: "Alright, alright, jeez."

"What's all this?" Hermione asked from bed.

"Quidditch," said Harry.

"Quidditch?"

"Quidditch."

"Will everybody _please_ stop saying quidditch?" Ron said tiredly. "Where are my Chudley shorts?"

"In the top drawer," said Hermione.

All this messing about was making Harry antsy. He tapped his foot impatiently, and then leapt into the hall as he heard a door open. George was padding over to the stairs with an empty mug.

"Oi!" he called.

"Oi yourself," said George.

"Quidditch!"

"Eh?"

"Let's play quidditch."

"Er – now?"

"Yes. Now."

"Oh. OK, fine. I'll just –"

"Meet you down there, meet you down there. You dressed Ron?"

"As dressed as I'm going to get on a Saturday." Ron found his broom behind the door and scratched his nose.

"Do you want to play, Hermione?" Harry asked.

"Certainly not," Hermione said. "Be careful. Have fun." She raised her book to eye-level, resting it on her upright knees. The title was _Birth, Life and Death – Medical Observations _and he felt a creepy shiver run from the back of his neck to the base of his spine.

"Bye then," he said shortly, grasping Ron firmly by the shoulder and steering him into the corridor and down the stairs.

"Steady on!" Ron protested, and broke away as they reached the kitchen. "What's with you this morning?"

"Are we playing?" George said from outside. Harry hurried out to meet him, and Ron followed, but just as he was about to suggest they play singly for goals, George said: "Oh look, Fred and Angie are back."

So they were. They touched down with barely a hello, then immediately fastened their hands and walked at speed to the kitchen door.

"That was quick," Harry said. "Quidditch?"

"No thanks," Fred said as he walked. "We came back because we – we forgot something."

"Come on, then," George challenged. "We don't have enough people. Fred? Angie? You can shag later, can't you?"

Angelina stopped in the doorway, and Fred marched back to his twin and lowered his voice to a mutter.

"No we can_not_," he said. "What's all this fuss about quidditch anyway?"

"It's Harry," Ron piped up. "He's practically foaming at the mouth."

"I'm not," Harry said defensively, while Fred eyed him. He glanced back to Angelina, and then George.

"Twenty quid our team can whoop yours," George said.

That was that. Fred had never turned down a quidditch-related bet in his life.

"Angie, do you …" he began tentatively.

"I'll play too," she replied with a little half-smile, before he'd even finished. "We've got all Saturday, haven't we?"

For the next two hours or so, Ron and Fred flew against George and Angie, with Harry flying for both teams. He'd never played harder in his life. He chased every ball, he dodged every bludger. He swerved, he passed, he near hustled the others off their brooms. Ron was almost knocked out once or twice by Harry's passing _Ascendant. _It was such a fierce approach to backyard quidditch that the others were quite bemused, and exhausted themselves in trying to keep up with him.

"That's it," George shouted eventually. His brow was soaked in sweat and he was red in the face. "I've had enough."  
He dropped to earth.

"Piker!" Harry called.

Angelina followed him with: "Yeah, I need a glass of water."

Fred made to disappear too, and Harry blocked him with his broom. "Oi, Fred, what are you doing?"

"I'm buggered, mate. Angie's half-dead. I told you I didn't get much sleep."

Reluctantly, Harry let him pass, and then spun about to glare at his one remaining player.

"Can't I go too?" Ron said plaintively, all out of breath.

Harry was about to tell him that they hadn't finished the game yet, but then he saw Ginny looking up at them through the kitchen window.

"Sure," he said faintly. "Whatever."

"About bloody time," Ron muttered and flew low. "Aren't you coming?" he yelled up to Harry, once his feet were on the ground.

"In a minute," Harry said softly.

"What?"

"In a minute!"

"Right-o."

He hovered in the air for a time, swooping gently back and forth. He was attempting to formulate the words he'd need when he spoke to Ginny, but none came. What do you say to a girl who hasn't even touched you for a week? What do you say to a girl who may (or may not – _may no longer_) be pregnant with your child?

Finally, Ginny came out onto the doorstep, arms folded across her chest.

"What are you doing?" she shouted up to him.

This was it, he thought. The words would have to find themselves.

He descended rapidly and skidded to a halt in front of her. Her hair reached past her shoulders now. He'd given her the top she was wearing, a little blue cotton thing with patterns on.

"The others said you were looking for me."

"Where have you been?" Harry asked stiffly.

"London," Ginny replied, frowning a little.

"Why didn't you tell me you were going?"

"Do I have to tell you everything?"

"You used to. You used to _want _to."

She bit her lip and he wanted to kiss her so much.

"Did you –" He stopped and lowered his voice a little. "Did you have something done about the baby?"

She stared at him a moment, and then shook her head very slowly. "No, Harry," she said, as though she didn't quite believe he'd asked.

He sighed so heavily that it felt as though all the breath had left his body. He was shaky, and so relieved, relieved right down to his bones and organs. He stared at his feet and fought the sudden, odd urge to cry.

"Did you think that's what I was doing?" she said softly.

He shrugged.

"I would never do something like that without talking to you. Not ever, Harry."

"You haven't talked to me for a while now."

He managed a glance up and she'd moved a little closer. "I'm sorry," she said, rather hopelessly. "I just couldn't think. With this wedding and all the stress, and I suppose my hormones are running about like wild things." She laughed once, awkwardly, and then reached out and touched his hand. He shivered, and she gripped more tightly.

"I just needed a day on my own," she went on, still speaking in that low, quiet way. "I sat in St James Park and let all my thoughts come out like bubbles. Because I've been holding them down all week, you see, pretending that I was empty, that I didn't have any thoughts at all."

"I tried to talk to you," he said.

"I know. I couldn't. I'm sorry."

"Alright." He took another deep breath, curled his fingers around her fingers and steeled himself for the big question. "What did you decide, then?"  
He kept his eyes on her face, and she kept her eyes on his. "It's not just me, Harry," she said. "It's us, like you said. I can't just pick out our life for us."

"It's your choice in the end," he said, and she shook her head vigorously.

"No, I was wrong to say what I did last week, to say that it was mine and not ours. I thought and thought, Harry, and in the end there was only one thought to come back to. We did this, didn't we? We did it out of love. We might not have meant for it to happen just now, but that's beside the point really. We just – we just have to accept it for what it is, and not think of it as a mistake. Or I do. I – I want to." She searched his face anxiously, and squeezed his hand. "Please don't be angry with me Harry," she said in a small voice. "I just needed a good think."

Harry was quite overcome. "Are you saying," he asked eventually, "that you want to do this?"

She looked at him a moment, then smiled a little smile. There was still the glint of fear in her eyes, but they were now also set with that uniquely Ginny-esque determination he loved. "Yeah. I guess I am."

"Give me a hug," Harry said hoarsely and pulled her into his arms. She sighed against his chest and he touched her hair and her arms and her strong, slender back and he couldn't believe he'd been without her for a week.

"What about quidditch?" he whispered in her ear.

"Quidditch will have to wait."

"What about being young?"

"Me and the baby will have something in common, won't we?"

"You and the baby?"

She nodded briefly, swallowed, smiled that smile again. "Yeah."

Harry exhaled and felt all the anxiety sliding out of him. "I like the sound of that."

He put his hand on her stomach and almost believed he could feel a little heartbeat, strong and steady and certain. Ginny looked at his hand on her belly, and then placed her own over his.

They stood like this for some time, until a polite 'Ahem' sounded from one of the upper-storey windows. They jumped and craned their necks – George was looking at them with raised eyebrows.

"Hello there," he said. "If you're _quite _finished canoodling, we're upstairs recovering from our numerous injuries. Bring us some butter beers, will you?

His head disappeared back into the house.

"Do you think he heard?" Ginny murmured.

"No," said Harry. "And if he did, I don't care."

"Let's just keep it on the down low for a little while, alright? I've got to find a way to tell the family."

"Alright." He would have agreed to just about anything at that point. He was far too happy, far too relieved, to make objections.

Harry Potter was going to be a father.


	12. Wondering

A/N: Oh no, more grovelling at my reviewers' feet. This is getting to be a habit. I'm finally on semester hols from uni and although work continues to slaughter me with hours I've managed to knock up a chapter for you. Please excuse everything, your wonderful patience is as always appreciated. Missed you all lots. In Harry's world, the wedding is getting closer (as is the release date for book 6 teehee!) Without further ado… xx S

--

A week meandered by at a strange, almost unearthly pace, at least for Harry. While they'd agreed not to tell anyone about the baby, it seemed impossible to that people couldn't just _know_ when they looked at Ginny, when they looked at him. He always had a dopey smile at the ready. He fell so often into oblivious happy-family daydreams that Fred asked him, quite seriously, if he'd thought about having his ears checked. He hugged his secret to himself, while at the same time fighting the near-unstoppable urge to tell everybody (including the man who came to fix the stove mid-week).

Ginny was not quite so consistently affable. She was, despite her decision, prone to panic attacks about being a mother. She never once suggested that she had changed her mind about keeping the baby, but he knew she was still dealing with the notion when he found her in the middle of the night, sitting on the toilet seat with her head between her knees.

"Gin?"

"What?" She was quickly upright, her hair flicking back from her face. Her eyes were rather wild and he shut the bathroom door carefully behind him.

"I woke up and you weren't there."

"Scared, Potter?" It was a feeble attempt at lightening the mood and he wasn't buying it.

"No. You?"

She licked her lips, closed her eyes, leaned back against the cistern. He waited for her to speak.

"Yes," she breathed finally.

He moved quickly to her. She shifted, he shifted; they were sat side by side, his arm around her shoulder, her head in the crook of his neck. They stayed like that for some time. When he held her, when he talked softly and logically, she was calmed. This same scene was repeated several times over the week, in different locations, at different times. Harry wasn't fazed. They had each other and she needn't be afraid. He was going to convince her of that if it took all summer – if it took nine months.

Sex was gentler between them, more profound, because they understood now what it could do. When she felt his hands on her she was sensitive as a live wire, all sparks and trembles. It reminded him of the first few times they slept together, when she had never been touched like that before and was so innocently desperate for him. It blew his mind, the memories, her reactions, her body – this last, especially, seemed to have taken on a new mystery. He imagined that he could see a slight swell in her stomach, though it remained as flat and quidditch-strong as ever.

One afternoon, while searching, at Hermione's request, through Mrs Weasley's kitchen bookshelf for a recipe, he came across a well-thumbed pregnancy book. The front cover had long since fallen off but the inscription read 'For my darling, from Mother'. Presumably Mrs Weasley's mum had passed it on to her daughter. Flipping through the pages he came to the diagram of a six-week-old child in its mother's womb. It was barely formed, barely moving. Recognisable were a little head and a little fish-like body. He thought, _This is in Ginny now_, and stared at the picture until Hermione called impatiently from the lounge. He slammed the book shut and put it away. Mrs Weasley could give it to Ginny later. It was already too much for him.

All of it was between wedding preparations. The guest tables and chairs arrived exactly on time – but all, inexplicably, had one leg ever so slightly shorter than the others. Ron landed the task of individually fixing them and then assembling them in a magically enlarged back room (once Charlie's bedroom). Fred and George refused to go to suit fittings, much to Ginny's dismay. They were holed up in their rooms and would not be moved for anything. Harry only saw them duck out for meals and the loo, and occasional visits to London via Floo. Angelina had gone back to their flat without complaint, so Harry assumed she approved of whatever was going on upstairs. This was some comfort. He didn't have much time for Fred and George anyway. There were too many other details to handle.

Seven days before the wedding, late Saturday afternoon, Harry was wandering the Burrow. Ginny had gone to the dressmakers to plead for help and left him with a list of jobs. He'd got through most of them and was looking for a hand, but nobody seemed to be around. He wondered if they'd disappeared on purpose. A summer shower spattered the fields outside.

He ventured out to the gazebo, jacket pulled over his head to protect from the rain, and peered cautiously through one glazed window. He could see a figure, and there didn't appear to be any 'suspicious' sounds emanating from within, but he knocked anyway.

"Hello?" came the sharp reply.

"Hermione? Is that you?"

"Don't come in!"

"Is Ron there?"

"No, I just – I just want to be – alone."

The _alone _came out on a sob. Well, damned if he was going to leave her in tears. He pushed the door open and strode purposefully in. Hermione was sitting on one of the benches, hugging her knees. Her speckled owl, Athena, was perched on the arm of a chair nearby.

"Hermione?" Harry said again, feeling suddenly uncertain. She looked up at him with tears streaming down her cheeks, her hair down to her chest and a wild mess. She was wearing shorts, Ron's singlet and a cardigan. He stopped in his tracks. She looked so defenceless suddenly, so vulnerable. She had looked something like this when Ron was injured in the last battle, and for some reason this was the first thing out of his mouth.

"Is Ron alright?"

She pressed her lips together and then her face crumpled. "Oh Harry!" she wailed.

"Sorry, sorry," he murmured and hurried forward to her. He sat next to her on the bench and she leant against him, sobbing.

"Shh, Hermione, you're OK. You're OK."

"Oh Harry, we've had a row!"

"You and Ron?"

At his name, she burst into fresh sobs. "It – was – t-terrible."

He titled his head to see her down-turned face. "That bad?"

She didn't reply. He stroked her hair, feeling rather nervous. Harry and Ron bickered all the time. It would have to be _bad _to have raised this reaction.

Athena hooted regally. Harry eyed the owl but she gave nothing away.

"Did you get some mail, Hermione?" he asked.

"Yes. From –"

"Richard," he suggested dryly.

"How did you know?"

"We saw him in London. Didn't Ron tell you? And I sort of accidentally invited him to the wedding. Ron was mailing him an invite, so I figured you'd get the RSVP … eventually …" He trailed off beneath Hermione's withering stare. "What?"

"Of _course _Ron didn't tell me. Of course he didn't send him an invitation. You really think he'd voluntarily ask Richard to come within a hundred metres of me?"

Harry shook his head. He'd been so distracted by Malfoy's reappearance, and then the baby issue, that he'd completely forgotten to follow up on the Richard invite.

"So what's happened?" Harry asked, confused. She pulled away from him a little, calming herself, and pushed her hair out of her eyes.

"He mailed an RSVP anyway, and addressed it to me. Said he supposed his invitation had been lost in transit. He's going to stay the night before, if it's alright by us."

Harry winced. Sleepover with Richard? He could imagine Ron's reaction – although surely Hermione's was out of proportion to the news?

"What else?" Harry asked eventually. She shot him a brief, guilty look and he frowned heavily. "What else Hermione?"

"He sent me another letter."

"What did the letter say?"

"The letter …" She swallowed and blinked out tears. "Harry, it's not true."

"Where is it?"

She pulled two pieces of crumpled parchment from her shorts pocket and he took them from her. The first was a cordial self-invite (as cordial as a self-invite can be); the second was written in a less formal script, and began 'Dearest Hermione'.

"Can I read it?"

Hermione nodded helplessly. Richard's letter ran:

Dearest Hermione,

You haven't replied to any of my letters. I hope I will receive something this time. All I can assume is that Ronald has you under lock and key, as always.

I know you feel for me what I feel for you. I can't hide it anymore and neither should you. That's why I said what I did at the end of term exams. The way you looked at me and touched me – I knew immediately you reciprocated. If your knight in red hair hadn't come along (remember? We didn't know what to say to him!), who knows where we might be now?

If you are denying what we have in order to spare Ron Weasley, you'd best think again. I can give you so much more. You are worthy of so much more. I honestly think we were made for each other, and I know you think so too, in your heart of hearts. In short, I will be at this wedding come hell or high water, and I hope that I'll leave it with you.

Your Richard.

"Jesus, Hermione," Harry breathed, still staring at the page. "What – what is he talking about?"

"Harry, I swear it's not true!" she said desperately, holding his arm so tight that he felt her fingernails digging into his skin. "I swear, Harry!"

"What does he mean by what he said at end of term? By …" He searched for the passage. "By 'the way you looked at me and touched me'?"

She released him and covered her face with her hands. "Merlin. We came out of the exams, I asked how he thought he'd done, he wanted to talk about his answers. I said alright. He pulled me into a side corridor and then told me that he was in love with me. I mean – out of the blue like that! I didn't know what to say. I think I just stared. He was practically on his knees and I pulled him back up again. He was – he had me cornered. I thought he was going to try something on me, but then Ron came and got me out of there. I made up some excuse and Ron believed me."

It was quite the little speech. Harry was momentarily lost for words, but eventually found some.

"Then why did you tell me there wasn't anything else? At the beginning of summer, why did you say he was only an acquaintance?"

"Because I didn't want Ron to know! I didn't want him to worry about me, or hurt Richard! And if I told you, you would tell him."

"Not necess–"

"You would, you know that."

Harry quickly read over the passage again. "Hermione, this sounds like more than just – a stupid crush or what. This sounds like he really loves you. Are you being completely honest?"

"I've told you everything!" she exclaimed, sounding anguished.

"I don't mean with me. I mean with yourself. How you feel about this Richard character."

"Of course," she said defensively. "What do you think I am? I mean … I suppose I was a little flattered, that somebody like him –"

"Somebody like _what?_"

"Oh, you know. Handsome, so clever …"

"He's a _git, _Hermione!"  
She sighed and wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand. "Yes, I know," she said quietly. "And I love Ron like – like nothing else, Harry. I swear nothing has happened with Richard, I swear I never gave him the slightest idea that I was interested. I'm _not _interested. It's just that – I've never known anybody but Ron. And it was just so strange to think that somebody else – oh Harry – he's just – just so _persistent_ –"

"Persistence doesn't make him a good guy," Harry said fiercely. He put a hand on either side of her face and forced her to meet his eye. He wanted to shake her into her senses. She was so much smarter than this. Why was it that guys like Richard with their hair and their eyes could turn even the cleverest girls into emotional wrecks?

"Ron would die for you," said Harry.

"I'd die for him," Hermione retorted, raising her chin.

"Yes, I know," said Harry. "But you can't keep him in the dark like this. And you can't let Richard go on thinking what he does."

"He'll come no matter what I say."

"So it seems. But when he does, you have to _tell_ him that you don't want him. That is –" It was such a wrench to say it, but he managed. "That is, if you really don't want him."

"I don't. On my life I don't, Harry."

"Then finish it."

"Alright." She nodded earnestly.

"And tell Ron."

"But …" Her eyes filled up yet again, and this time she brushed the tears away in frustration. "That's why Ron and I fought. He read both letters before I could. He didn't even shout at me. He just – the way he looked at me – I could hardly bear it. Then he walked out and hasn't come back."

Harry didn't go looking for Ron. He knew his best friend would eventually make his way home. He wasn't a man to run away from things. Deny them maybe, but once out in the open, he wasn't going to turn his back. He'd be back in his own good time. Instead, Harry coaxed Hermione inside (she wanted to stay in the gazebo in case Ron returned there), made her a cup of tea and installed her in Ron's room with a book. She flipped the pages idly, not reading, and Harry found that more disturbing than anything else. Eventually he left her and headed downstairs to wait for Ginny.

She came out of the living room fireplace at half past six in the evening, coughing and ash-streaked.

"What a terrible trip," she said through splutters. "Oh, Harry, there you are."

"Here I am. Come and sit down."

She perched on the arm of his chair and twisted her fingers absently in his hair. "It rained all day and the Floos were so busy. I got stuck halfway between grates somewhere near Sloane Square. It was utterly miserable."

"My poor baby." She bit her lip the way he loved and he pressed a hand to her belly. "My poor baby," he said again, softly.

She took his hand between hers, enlacing their fingers. "How was your day?"

"Uneventful. The flowers are coming at ten o'clock on the day."

"Marvellous."

"Ron and Hermione had a row."

"What's new?"

"Over Richard."

She slid down from the chair arm to his lap. "What happened?"

He told her the story.

"I thought something like this might happen," she said thoughtfully, when he finished.

"Something like what?"

"Boys and Hermione."

"What do you mean?"

"She and Ron have been together for so long. It was bound to come up sooner or later, another guy testing the waters."

"Well, apparently he found them warm."

"Rubbish. You know Hermione would never."  
He sighed. "Yeah I know. I'm just worried about her. This Richard – he's a tricky one. I think he's fooled her into thinking he's a nice guy and I don't want her to make a bad decision."

"Hermione doesn't make bad decisions," Ginny said calmly. That was true; or at least, she hadn't yet. "And she said she didn't want him, right?"

"Right. I guess. Just this _guy_."

"What about him?"

"He's just – you know, really good-looking and intelligent and all those things girls like so much. So smarmy. What if he – I don't know, turns her head?"

"She's probably just confused. She's been with Ron for so long she must have thought _occasionally _about what it would be like with another man. When a guy actually suggested it, I suppose it threw her into shock or panic or whatever. You know nothing will come of it though. She loves my brother so much there'd never be room for anyone else."

"I just don't know what Ron'd do without her," Harrry said soberly.

She began to chew on her thumbnail, and he batted her hand away. She kissed him quick.

"I don't know what I'd do without _you_," she sighed. "I've had the most Merlin-cursed day. I might just have to wear my bleeding quidditch robes to the wedding, because the right dress is gone forever."

He rubbed her back sympathetically. "They couldn't help?"

"Unless I want to spend more galleons that we could possibly afford, no."

"I'll pay to …"

"No Harry, we'll need all our money when … for other things … later."

"Oh, right."

She groaned. "I suppose it doesn't matter. I just wanted to look beautiful for you and all our friends."

"You always look beautiful."

"Sod off." He tickled her; she wriggled and laughed.

A polite cough in the vicinity interrupted them. They stopped mid-tickle. Mrs Weasley was in the doorway and she had her old wedding dress in hand.

"Mum?" Ginny said uncertainly.

"Don't say anything just yet, dear," Molly Weasley said. She lifted up the dress so that it fell to its full length in front of her and Ginny's mouth dropped open. The dress, seen like this, was gorgeous and full-skirted. Some of the petticoat layers had been removed so that it looked rounded rather than puffy. There was delicate old lace at the bodice. Mrs Weasley had done something with the neckline, lowered it, and removed the puffed sleeves. It now had no sleeves at all and its rich cream colour seemed almost to glow.

Ginny stood slowly, hand still over her mouth.

"I made some adjustments," said Mrs Weasley, fiddling with the folds of the skirt. "I know how you hated those sleeves, so they were first to go. I just gave it a tidy-up really, and it ought to be your size. You've been having so much trouble I thought – do you like it?"

Ginny was still wordless. She stepped closer to the dress, her eyes moving all over it. Harry watched from his armchair with a stunned smile.

Mrs Weasley was slightly unnerved by their silence. She rattled on about the adjustments she'd made, about how well the bridesmaid dresses from the dress-shop would match, and mostly how all Ginny had to do was say she didn't like it and Mrs Weasley wouldn't bring it up again.

Finally, Ginny touched the dress and spoke.

"Thank you," she said.

Mrs Weasley's eyes widened and Ginny threw her arms about her. "I love it, Mum," she whispered. "May I go try it on?"

"Of course!"

Ginny practically ran from the room, throwing a little smile behind her for Harry.

"Are you alright, Mrs Weasely?" Harry asked.

"I'm fine," she said, dabbing at her eyes.

"Do you want a cup of tea?"

"No, dear." She squared her shoulders. "Well. That's that then."

She swept out of the room and upstairs after her daughter.

Harry grinned and sunk down in his armchair, but the pleasant warmth he felt from this resolution about the dress did not last long.

Minutes later, the kitchen door creaked open and in trudged Ron, soaking wet, broom still in hand. Harry stood abruptly.

"Mate!"

Ron started. "Harry!"

"What are you doing?"

"Er – I went for a fly."

"Yeah, I can see that."

Ron hung his head and rubbed the back of his neck. "Do you know – where Hermione is?"

"In your room," Harry said carefully. "She's been waiting for you to come back."

"Has she?" he said. Harry couldn't pick quite what was in his voice. It was something like resignation and he didn't like that at all.

"She's been in tears all day," Harry went on. "She really wants to talk to you."

"I suppose I'd better get up there, then," Ron said quietly. It was like he thought – Harry didn't know what. The worst? He remembered Ron's words after they met Richard on the street in London. _I just can't handle the thought of her leaving me._

He found some words once his friend was halfway up the stairs.

"She's not going anywhere, mate."

Ron paused ever so slightly and glanced at him.

"I hope not," he said fervently.

He took the next few stairs at a jog and was gone.

Harry crossed his fingers for them and thought of Ginny's simple confidence in Ron and Hermione's furious love. She was right, he thought. They'd sort it out. They had to.


	13. Ricocheting

A/N Hello there! Glad you liked it, glad to be back. Got to love a bit of drama, right? Next chap is a long one … nearly split it in two, but then I thought you deserved a big 'un, so here it all is. Read, review, do what you do. I'll be around as soon as I can be. Xx S.

Harry woke with the first signs of dawn on Friday morning – lonely bird calls, greying sky. He didn't get up. Instead, he turned his head on the pillow to watch his still-sleeping fiancée. Her breathing was soft and heavy. Strands of hair fell across her face. He raised a hand to brush them away, but then thought better of it – she was such a light sleeper, he'd surely wake her. Let her have a few more minutes, at least until the sun came up properly.

At that moment, her eyes opened. She blinked twice, languidly, dazed with sleep.

"Good morning," she said.

"Hello."

They looked at one another a little while and then she draped one of her bare legs across one of his. "What are you looking at?"

"What do you think?"

She took his hand and held it against her stomach. "Am I fat yet?"

"You're gorgeous."

Ginny raised her eyebrows. "Oh?"

He kissed her gently, his lips barely touching hers. "And so funny." Less gently. She kissed him back with an anticipatory smile. "And your legs are so long." He took his hand from her belly, stroked her thigh; she came up in goose-bumps. "And your hair is so red." They rolled, he was above her. "If you're not careful, I might just marry you tomorrow."

"Now there's an idea," she murmured. She was already flushed and trembling. They stopped talking for a while and made love in the half-dark. He knew her body like a favourite book – every page triggered memories. Every part of her was as familiar to him as a friend.

Once, a little drunk, he'd asked George why he couldn't settle down. "Harry," the twin replied, "I'd miss the anticipation too much. Every woman is a surprise. You don't know what to expect, you don't know what she might say or do. It's like an adventure, going to bed with a new woman. It's like an _expedition._"

That's not how he felt with Ginny. He felt as though he may once, long ago, have been on an expedition, in some far off country where nobody spoke his language. With Ginny, it was like he had come home from that place. And she knew exactly what he was saying.

At eight, Harry and Ginny made their way downstairs. Hermione was waiting by the living room fireplace, bag over her shoulder, time-piece in hand. She straightened when she saw them coming and hastily put her watch away.

"Oh! Oh, there you two are. I just thought I'd wait here, in case – in case you'd forgotten. We've got Beauty Morning."

"Sorry, 'Mione," Ginny said, glancing at Harry. "Lost track of the time."

He couldn't bite back a grin. "My fault," he said quietly. Hermione pretended not to hear.

"Well," Harry went on, more loudly. "You girls have a nice day. We'll handle everything here."

"Who do you mean by 'we'?" said Ginny.

"Me and – well, the twins won't help, I assume your dad's finishing up at work and your mum's already at the shops, so I guess – Ron."

Hermione snorted. "Good luck."   
Harry searched her face out of the corner of his eye. At any other time he would have thought this was a normal Hermione-comment but he still hadn't had any update on their Richard argument. When questioned, Ron was stubbornly close-mouthed. Hermione avoided the topic or changed the subject if it was raised. There seemed to be an uneasy truce between them – they were still sleeping in the same room – but Harry knew from experience that even then things might not be quite alright.

It wasn't the time to broach the issue. He pecked Ginny on the cheek and headed for the kitchen.

Ron was eating marmalade toast at the table. He had the _Daily Prophet _sports section open in front of him. He'd also set the kettle to boil, presumably for tea, and it began to whistle as Harry entered.

"Could you get that mate?" he said, eyes fixed to the page. "White with one."

"Get it yourself."

He glanced up. "Harry, soon you're going to have a wife to make tea for you every day. Will you do me this one little favour? Thanks."

"I don't think Ginny is going to be an every-day-tea-making kind of wife," Harry said pointedly, but the redhead just waved wordlessly toward the stove. He gave in and made tea. Once Ron had a mug in front of him, he took a few sips whilst reading.

"Hermione and Ginny just left," Harry said.

Ron paused and glanced at him. "And?"

"And – I just thought you'd want to know."

"Ah."

"They're off to do the beautifying thing. Even though they don't need it."

"I have to tell you something. Let me just finish this article about Wood's team. You want to see?"

He shifted the paper between them. Harry gave up prodding for Hermione-related reactions and read. Oliver Wood's quidditch team were still sourcing seekers. Harry thought that he must remind Ginny to try out and then remembered why she couldn't. His immediate reaction was, unavoidably, disappointment. It frustrated him – he didn't want to think about their baby in the negative. He stopped reading the article and finished his tea.

When Ron was done, he folded the _Prophet _and pushed it across the table. Then he sat back in his chair and put his hands behind his head with a distinct air of satisfaction.

"You look like you just got shagged," said Harry blankly.

"Huh," was Ron's oblique comment. "No. But I am rather pleased with myself."

"Why?"

A slow grin spread across his face. "Because," he said, "I've finally finished organising the buck's night."

There was a long silence as Harry heard these words repeating.

"Beg yours?" he said finally.

"Buck's night. It's on for young and old, tonight."

He went on grinning and Harry realised that he was serious.

"Ron!"

"What?"

"What the fuck, Ron? Ginny will kill me!"

"No she won't."

"Yes she _will_, mate. Maybe you first, then me. She already told me she hates those things. That's why she's not having a hen's party."

Ron pointed an accusing finger at Harry. "No. Hen's nights aren't tradition. They only started because girls got sick of their husbands having a little joy without them before they got married. It was revenge."

"Not funny. I don't even want one. We've got that bloody rehearsal lunch today."

He ploughed on regardless. "But buck's nights have been around for centuries and will go on for centuries to come. It's a male bonding ritual. It's a chance for you to say goodbye to everything it means to be a bachelor. It _defines _the night before. Marriage is practically meaningless without a buck's night."

"I think you're probably not serious, but then I get scared you might be. Tell me you're not serious."

"I'm serious."

Harry groaned.

"It's too late now," Ron said serenely, finishing his tea in a few short gulps. "I've already organised it with everyone."

"Who's everyone?"

"Some old friends. Some new friends. Some _very _new friends."

"How new?" Harry asked suspiciously.

"Dancing girls new." Ron grinned even wider, if that was possible. Seeing Harry's face, he put on his best wounded-puppy-dog expression. "I'm kidding. Please, Harry. As your best man, please let me carry out this sacred duty."

"Let you get me drunk and humiliate me in front of our friends on the night before my wedding?"

"I wouldn't have chosen those words exactly … oh, come on, you tosser. Be a man."

"Hey. I am a man."

"Then get manly. Come to your buck's night."  
Another silence. Ron waited expectantly. Harry couldn't see a way out.

"Alright. I'll have to tell Ginny."

"Thank Merlin!"

"What does Hermione think of all this?"

Immediately, his defences were up again. "I wouldn't know," he said shortly. "We haven't talked about it."

Harry didn't get the chance to comment because a loud cracking sound from outside signalled the arrival of, as Ginny called them, the Tent Men. They'd come to put up the marquee and were early. He left Ron with instructions to levitate the benches out and hurried into the yard. His buck's night surprise was pushed, temporarily, to the back of his mind.

"Hm," said Ginny.

They were standing at the altar beneath a white marquee. Hermione was behind Ginny; Ron was behind Harry. Mr and Mrs Weasley (Arthur having taken a rare three days off), the twins, and a newly-arrived Bill, Fleur and Felix watched from benches a short distance away.

"This wasn't your idea, was it Harry?" Hermione said darkly.

"And what's that supposed to mean?" snapped Ron.

"Well, you just answered my question for me."

"Lucky you."

"And what's that supposed to mean, Ronald?"

Harry spoke over their tense whispers. "Not now, you two."

They fell into an immediate, almost embarrassed silence.

Ginny pursed her lips thoughtfully.

"Alright," she said and shrugged. "I suppose it'll be a bit of fun for you lot."

"Are you kidding?"

"Should I be?"

Ron clapped a hand on Harry's shoulder. "I knew you'd pull through for us, Ginny." He gave Fred and George a surreptitious thumbs-up and they responded enthusiastically in kind.

"Gin, are you sure this is a good idea?" Hermione said anxiously.

"Not entirely. But we've got so much to do tonight and I don't know that they'd be much help, especially if they're all moping about because I told them 'no'." She took Harry by the chin and looked him in the eyes. "Besides, I trust you."

This wasn't the response Harry had expected. In fact, he'd been rather hoping she'd throw a tantrum and he wouldn't have to go. It just sounded like so much effort – he'd have to play the part of reluctant-groom-having-a-good-time when all he really wanted was an early night in with Ginny. At the same time, he didn't want to disappoint Ron, who had clearly gone to some trouble to put it all together and could probably use a night out.

"Great," he said, not very convincingly.

"Great," agreed Ron.

Hermione rolled her eyes.

"Here he is!" cried Mrs Weasley. They all turned in unison. A young wizard was leaping awkwardly from his broom and hurrying to meet them. He was carrying a very old book covered in green-stained leather.

"Sorry!" he cried, then lowered his voice as he reached their altar (a carved wooden stand which would be covered in flowers the following day). "Sorry. I just left a cancelled wedding – the groom caved at the last moment. Very exciting."

"Oh," said Ginny, and that was all. She looked suddenly uncertain. Harry squeezed her hand and then held it out to greet the celebrator.

"Harry Potter," he said warmly. "And this wedding is going full-steam ahead."

"Er – Fidelius Rosethorn." He looked rather thrown: whether by the muggle term 'full-steam' or Harry's all too famous name, he wasn't sure. He also looked rather young to be a marriage celebrator.

"Could we move it along, please?" Fred called from their seats. "We've left a pot on the boil upstairs."

They practiced how they would walk, what they would say. Mrs Weasley cried. Felix clapped his hands throughout. Fred and George, having foregone the offer of being second best men, carried the rings and kept pretending to lose them. Within an hour, they'd all had enough and went to lunch in the backyard.

Harry and Ron were washing up in the kitchen when there was a short knock at the kitchen door. Ron, absently twirling his wand at the scrubbing brush, didn't move, so Harry answered the door. He was almost knocked over by the force of a handshake and didn't quite comprehend who he was looking at until he heard the man speak.

"Harry Potter! Richard Desmond. I came by broom. You remember me, I'm sure, and I remember you. How's things, lad? Feeling some of those husband-to-be jitters?"

"Er, no – hello – just –"

"Hope I'm not too early for you! I couldn't wait to get on the road. I do love a good wedding. They've got you doing the dishes! Thought I saw some kind of lunching going on out there. Nobody spotted me, though. May I come in?"

Harry spun about, quite lost for words. Ron had disappeared, leaving the scrubbing brush suspended unmoving in mid-air. Harry wondered where he had gone, but didn't wonder why.

At six, Harry took refuge in the bathroom, locking the door behind him. He had on jeans and a green t-shirt. In front of the mirror he ran his hands through his hair a few times. It was as dark and unruly as ever. He sat on the closed lid of the toilet and sighed.

It was chaos in the Burrow. Arthur's Welsh mother, Grandmother Weasley, arrived barely half an hour after Richard and declaimed all aspects of the house to be in some way unsatisfactory. Arthur and Molly were trying to placate her right up until Charlie's arrival by Floo – at which point, they gave her a feather duster and told her to go for her life. Charlie had brought with him a tall, clever woman with short black hair and a face Hermione called 'elegant' rather than beautiful. She was Italian (although spoke text-book English), her name was Sylvia and Charlie introduced her, awkwardly, as his research partner.

"I don't know about you," George muttered in Harry's ear, "but I can guess exactly what they're researching."

Seeing Sylvia touch Charlie's arm as he passed her to fetch tea, seeing the usually self-possessed dragon-watcher stare at her and stumble over words, Harry agreed.

Hermione entertained Richard for a time. Harry noticed that she was careful to keep the two of them in rooms full of people. He also noticed that she was watching the door for Ron's return. When he did eventually slouch back into the Burrow, Mrs Weasley gave him what-for and Hermione pressed Harry into minding Richard. She followed Ron upstairs and Harry watched Richard watch them. There was something calculating in those polite blue eyes that he hadn't seen before.

After an excruciating hour of small talk, he managed to intern Richard with Mr Weasley, folding place-cards. And then he'd gone to the bathroom to breathe for a while.

He jumped at a rapid tat-tat on the door.

"I'm in here," he called.

"I know," said Ron from outside. "I want to come in."

Harry opened the door for him. Ron was in a blue long-sleeved shirt and trousers. He'd brushed his hair. "Why aren't you changed?" he said.

"I am. Shut the door."

Obediently, Ron locked them in and moved to the mirror to straighten his collar. He looked sideways at Harry. "Put on something decent, will you?"

Harry sat himself on the toilet again. "I'm comfortable in this. It's not like we're going to a club or anything – are we?"

"No. The entertainment's coming to us."

"Great," he said dryly. Ron was now staring at himself in the mirror and Harry thought it might be the moment to bring up Hermione. "Ron …"

"Yeah?"

"Have you talked to 'Mione yet?"

He didn't reply at first, but eventually turned to face Harry. "About what?"

"About Richard."

At the sound of his name, Harry actually heard Ron crack a knuckle. "Sort of," he said.

"Sort of – how?"

"I sort of said I hated him and she sort of said she knew and I sort of said that she should order him out the house and she sort of said she couldn't do that just now and I sort of said Fuck you and walked out."

Harry blinked at him. "You told Hermione 'fuck you'?"

"Yes."

"Ron!"

"What?" he said loudly and turned to the mirror again. His eyes were a little wild. "What?"

Harry didn't know what to say. He'd told Hermione to have it out with Richard and apparently she hadn't yet. Maybe she was scared – scared to tell him? Scared to be alone with him? At any rate, he didn't blame Ron for his anger, but it didn't suit him at all. "He's coming tonight," said Ron, more quietly.

"Who? _Richard?_"

"I'd rather have him where I can see him than have him here with my girlfriend. He's downstairs waiting for us."

"You'll kill him."  
"He might kill me. He wants her badly enough." In the mirror, he met Harry's eye. "So be it," he said grimly. "Maybe we can fight for her."

"You don't need to fight for her," Harry said. He felt tired – he felt too tired for this melodrama. "If we're going to do this, can it not be a night of brawls and bloodshed? I'm serious. Forget about Richard, just for tonight."

Ron took a few deep breaths and shook his head. "Sure, you're right. It's your night. And it's going to be great. Really." He forced a grin and then grabbed Harry and hauled him up. He dusted him off and then held him by his shoulders.

"You ready?"

"As I'll ever be."

"Let's rock and roll."

The glint in Ron's eye was a little manic.

Before Harry had even opened his eyes, his ears were assailed with sound – a drunken roar, thudding music, clinking glasses. His stomach swooped with the after-effects of the Portkey. Richard was on his left, Ron on his right. Fred, George, Charlie and Bill were part of their circle too. He heard Bill laughing wryly, as though he'd seen it all before, and somebody (the twins?) throwing high-fives.

Harry opened his eyes. He was in a living room that had been, quite literally, turned into a bar. Around the edges of the room chairs and bookshelves had been moved out of the way. In the very centre stood a rectangular bar manned by two wait-staff. Couches and low tables were scattered throughout. At least fifty men were milling about with drinks in hand. Harry had time to wonder where Ron had dug them all up before the applause and cheering began – they'd seen him. A chorus of "Here Comes The Groom" started up somewhere and soon they were all singing it. A sign hanging from the ceiling read: 'Congratulations', another; 'Welcome to the Dark Side'. Harry couldn't quite suppress a smile. He recognised a number of ex-Hogwarts students and some friends of Ron's he'd met occasionally. His eyes nearly fell out of his head when he saw Seamus Finnigan come rushing forward.

"Potter!" he shouted.

"Irish!"

They embraced (manfully) and then Dean Thomas appeared out of nowhere. He and Harry shook hands and Ron told him that it was Dean's house they were standing in. Harry raised his eyebrows. He still hadn't quite forgiven Dean for breaking Ginny's heart, but he supposed he, Harry, had won in the end and found himself feeling surprisingly gracious about it all.

Drinks were being thrust into his hands and he was just about to start the obligatory 'thank you's when he saw a girl get up on a table. He turned his head – there was another one. He hadn't noticed just how many tables there were before, but now that he looked, there were quite a few. In fact, a number of girls were on the tables now. And they were dancing.

Harry looked at Ron, who met his gaze innocently.

"Lovely," George said appreciatively. "If you'll excuse me."  
He moved in a direct beeline for one table and Fred followed. Bill and Charlie went to the bar for a drink and Richard, clearly feeling the sting of being ignored (something he probably didn't experience too often), moved after them.

Harry went on looking at Ron.

"There appear to be dancing girls," Harry said evenly.

"Yes."

"Ron."

"Harry. Come on. They're just dancers. It's not like they're strippers or anything."

At this point, one of the girls took off her top and flung it into the crowd. Ron and Harry watched its trajectory. It landed on George's head and the twin whooped energetically.

"Hm," said Ron. "Maybe they are strippers."

"I can't be here right now," Harry said.

"Yes you can."

"Of course you can!" Seamus was indignant. "You just need a drink or five."

"Relax, Harry," Ron said soothingly. "Nothing's going to happen. I'll tell the girls to put their tops back on."

Dean and Seamus launched simultaneous protests and Harry found himself being steered towards the bar. He didn't want to be negative about Ron's gift but this was all a little much – and the attention! The attention was killing him.

Several hours later, when the crowd was pissed and the girls had stopped stripping to mingle, Harry felt quite a lot better. He was drunk himself after a variety of strange events – being ceremoniously handcuffed (because he was 'selling himself into slavery'), being forced to drink shots from some woman's stomach, participating in a drinking game in which no pointing was allowed. He had long since learnt to hate the spotlight and now that everyone was too indisposed to remember he was meant to be the guest of honour, he wasn't having a bad time. He watched George make out on a couch with one of the dancers; Seamus was doing the River Dance for an audience; Bill and Charlie were in heated, drunken discussion at the bar.

"Hey."

Harry was sitting on a bar stool in a quiet corner of the room and he swivelled a little to see who had spoken. It was a blonde girl wearing a _very _short red dress and high silver shoes.

"Hey there," he said.

She passed him a drink. "Bourbon and coke," she said. He took a few sips.

"Thanks. I was – I had a lot – before."  
She laughed lightly. "Yeah, I know. Move over."  
Automatically, he shifted. She sat beside him, far too close. Her body was pressed up alongside his. He felt as though he might fall off the seat; with one cheek on, one cheek off, he was distinctly unbalanced. He wobbled a little and she put a steadying arm around him.

"Whoa," he said lowly and she laughed again.

"Are you OK?"

"Yeah. Sure. Will you put my drink down on – there?"

She took the full glass and put it carefully on the floor.

"Are you drunk?"

"Hm? Oh yeah, I think sho – think so – yeah."

"Did you enjoy the show?"

"Show?"

"The dancing."

"Oh, the dancing. Very good. Very good dancing."

"Thanks." She leant closer still, if that was possible, and pressed her mouth to his ear.

"Are you _the _Harry Potter?" she whispered.

He leant away. Her mouth was tickling him.

"Yeah," he said.

"That's cool," she said softly. It still tickled. He turned his head to ask her to stop and found his lips suddenly inches from her own. She crossed the space between them slowly; he was in a trance; it was only as her lips grazed his that he realised he didn't want to do that at all.

With a stagger, he stood. He had to hold out his arms to steady himself.

"What was that?" she pouted.

"Hey," he said, closing his eyes, seeing Ginny. "Did you know I'm gonna be a dad?"

When he opened them again, the girl was standing too and pulling her skirt down. "Should have known you'd be barking mad," she muttered. She took the drink she'd given him and stalked away.

He tottered but a hand grabbed his arm moments later. Fred Weasley was holding him up.

"We need you Potter," he said urgently, half-pushing half-dragging him through the room. They seemed to be heading for the front door, and were following several other sweaty drunk men.

"Why – do you need me?"

"It's Ron. He's about to fight that Richard fellow. I'm trying to talk him out of it – I don't want to deal with blood tonight. Too pissed."

Harry remembered saying this himself, about bloodshed, and sobered just a little. "Where?"

They came out into the night. "There," said Fred. He needn't have. Harry could see for himself, if somewhat blurrily. In Dean's front yard, Ron and Richard stood a couple of metres apart, screaming at one another. A small crowd of party-goers had gathered around them. Fred and Harry came as close as they dared but Ron did not appear to notice.

"You're a piece of shit scumbag writing letters to my girlfriend!" Ron bellowed.

"Very eloquent, Ronald," Richard hissed. He didn't sound as though he had a drop of alcohol in him. "You're wasted on a woman like that."

"Hey," called Fred, "let's not get nasty."

He was ignored.

"You're a waste of air, that's what you are, you piece of shit."

"You said that already!"

"I'll say it again!" Ron shouted, somewhat desperately. "I'll say it again, _you piece of shit. _She's not yours! She doesn't want you! Why can't you just leave us alone?"

He lurched forward and so did Richard.

"Do something Harry," Fred said urgently. "I've tried!"

"Oi!" Harry said loudly, just as Ron punched Richard with enough force to floor him. His Auror training had clearly prepared him well. Richard scrambled up immediately and launched several blows in Ron's direction. One caught him in the stomach and Ron reeled away, before swinging back with another sucker punch to the face, right below Richard's eye. Richard roared in pain; they came together in a sort of wrestle and fell to the ground as one.

"_Oi!_" Harry cried again, this time as loudly as he might on the quidditch pitch. There was still no response.

"Come on," said Harry to Fred. "We'll pull them apart."

"Do we have to?" Fred asked plaintively.

"Yes."

Bill and Charlie arrived at just that opportune moment and the four of them leapt into the fray, pulling the two brawlers apart. Both struggled manfully but were finally subdued. Twenty or so onlookers cheered and called for more drinks.

"Merlin's beard," swore Charlie.

"Tell me about it," said Bill. He sounded particularly put-out. "How are we going to explain this to Mum?"

"I think it's about time we went home," Charlie said, wiping his brow. "Fuck, I'm pissed. Fred, will you drag George away from that girl? We've had enough."

"I'm on it."

"I'm going to get you, you son-of-a-bitch!" yelled Ron.

"And I'm going to get _her!_" Richard retorted.

Harry winced as Ron tried to launch himself forward and instead caught Harry in the nose with his elbow. "Melin, watch it, Ginny'll kill me if I've got a black eye – in the wedding photos – Ron, leave off!"

It took a strong Calming Charm from Bill to bring both men to their senses. They fell into a sullen silence while the other Weasleys debated their next course of action.

"That wanker can't come home with us," Charlie said decidedly, jerking his head at Richard. "Ron wouldn't have a bar of it. We'll have to – I don't know, put him up in a hotel?"

Fred snorted. "With whose money? You're not going to throw mine away."

"If anybody should be in a hotel," George put in, "it's me. I've got a fit bird waiting for me as we speak."

"You can't go home with her anyway," Bill said sharply. "You've got to help set up tomorrow."

"Bill!"

"Cheer up lad, there'll be other girls."

"Hey," said Harry. He felt rather queasy and wanted to ask when they'd be going home. They didn't seem to hear him.

"Say we put him up in a hotel. Should we all go home at once?"

"I could go with Harry, you could go with Ron."

"Hey," he tried again.

"Or we could just take the Portkey together. It might be easier, less noise. And I'm worried about Ron on that thing, he's in a right state."

"_Hey!"_

They all turned to look at him and he promptly threw up.

That was the decider, really. Bill performed a Sobering Charm on Harry (which only half-worked – they were notoriously difficult to pull off), just to get him through the Portkey journey, as he seemed to be worse-off than the rest of them. It cured him of his nausea but left a throbbing headache that Bill promised would be gone by morning. George said goodbye to his lady friend. Charlie hung back to sort things with Richard.

Outside the Burrow's kitchen door, they spoke in exaggerated whispers. The sky was very starry. It was going to be a clear morning.

"Turning in twin?" Fred yawned. George shrugged grumpily. "Oh, don't sulk. At least you got something. I'll have to wait till Angelina arrives. Alright Harry, Ron?"

"Alright," Harry mumbled, rather embarrassed. "Thanks."

The twins looked at each other and then at Harry. "Shall we hug you?"

"Er, no."

"I think we should. George?"

"I think you're right."  
They hugged him with painful force. "Your last night of freedom, and you spent it with us," Fred said once they'd released him. "Brings a tear to the eye."

They Apparated upstairs and Bill swore at the sound they made.

"If he wakes Fleur or Mum, I swear to Merlin – will you be OK if go in, Harry?"

"Sure."

"Ronnikins?" Bill punched his shoulder lightly. "Nice right hook you've got there."

Ron was stony-faced and Bill left with a shrug.

"You alright mate?" Harry asked, when they were alone.

"Just couldn't stand it anymore," Ron muttered.

"I know."

"Ruined your night."

"No, don't be stupid."

"I wanted – to do what you said, Harry, that day. Show him I wasn't afraid."

"Well you did that, mate." Harry laughed wryly and then put a hand to his throbbing head.

"Does it make a difference?" Ron looked at him with something like anxiety, something like bitterness.

"It's Hermione that makes the difference, Ron," said Harry. "Talk to her. Tell her."

They parted ways at the top of the stairs with yet another brotherly embrace. He'd been getting a few of those lately. Men seemed to feel the need to farewell him as though he were off to war.

Ginny was in bed. He changed as quietly as he could in the dark (with muttered protests and a kicked toe) and got under the covers beside her. It wasn't until she spoke that he realised she was awake.

"Have fun?"

She didn't turn over. He stroked her hair. "Um … it was alright."

There was a brief silence.

"Beautiful women throw themselves at you?"

Harry pushed her hair out the way to see the line of her cheek, and remembered the girl in the red dress. "One," he said finally, "but as soon as I told her I was going to be a dad, she ditched me."

"Is that so?" Ginny rolled to face him with a look that reminded him of her mother.

He cracked a little half-smile. "Pretty much. I was only thinking about you anyway."

She closed her eyes and sighed. He slid his hand over her waist, over the barely discernable bump in her belly, over her breasts, her soft long neck and strong shoulders. He thought how his head didn't hurt so much when he touched her, and he felt – he didn't know what. All he knew was that this was absolutely what he wanted – this, her, them, till the end.

"Tomorrow," he murmured.

Ginny opened her eyes. "You're late. It already is tomorrow."


	14. Memories and Promises

"Shit-bugger-wank-tit-fuck," said Harry.

"I understand what you're getting at," said Ron, "but now's not the time for histrionics."

"Look at all those people."

"There's not _so _many."

"There are many. Your mother – Merlin love her, but did she have to invite them all?"

They were watching wedding guests arrive from Ron's bedroom window. Ginny had taken over their room, along with her friend Jenny and a frazzled Hermione, as a pre-wedding drinks and dressing boudoir. Harry and Ron had been relegated to the best man's rather cramped digs and, having long since finished dressing themselves, were now watching avidly the goings on downstairs.

"I think I see Filch," Harry groaned.

"No!"

"And his cat – Merlin's balls."

"Maybe it's – a carry bag."

"Shut up Ron."

Ron prodded a finger against the glass. "Is that McGonagall?"

"I don't know. Hey, it is!"

"She looks smaller. She looks smaller, right?"

She didn't look smaller to Harry, just less intimidating than she might at work. It could have been the passage of years lending him a new, mature outlook; it could have been the funny purple hat she had on. "I think we're bigger, Ron. You know, older."

"Maybe you," Ron grimaced. "Hermione thinks I'm still in the early stages of puberty."

Harry looked at him sidelong. "You talked about the fight?"

"Not the fight _per se. _But when I came home drunk, with bruises on my stomach the size of quaffles …"

"You're exaggerating."

"… I think she surmised the rest."

"What did she say?"

"Let's not talk about this now, Harry."

"Why? Because it's my wedding day?"

"Yes, because it's your wedding day."

"Well, sod that. I'm nervous about the guests. I need distraction. Give it up."

"She asked where Richard was. I said I didn't know. And you know what she said after that?"

"What?"

"Absolutely nothing."

Harry put a steady hand on Ron's shoulder. "Can _I_ say something, then?"

Ron avoided his gaze. "Sure. I guess."

"That whole thing about showing him you're not afraid – I don't know if fighting him is the right way to go about it. Maybe that's telling him more about your fears than anything else. And besides, maybe I was wrong."  
Ron looked at him with narrowed eyes. "How d'you mean?"

"Maybe it's Hermione who should know you're not afraid."

He spluttered a little. "But – but I fought for her! Isn't that proof?"

"You don't need to, do you? She's yours."

"But – she might not always be."

"You would never have said that a year ago. Don't you remember that feeling you two had?" Harry eyed him sternly. He was on some kind of groom-high. He was imparting romantic wisdom and it felt so good, so scary, to think he wasn't going to have to go through these kind of problems anymore, these dating problems. "Don't fightfor her. Just – stand up for her. Be sure of her. That's what she needs, I think. She needs you to – believe she's yours, because then _she_ can really believe it. The more insecure you are about it, the more insecure _she_ gets, and the more Richard reels her in, because he's never had a doubt in his life. You know what I mean?"

Ron shook his head slowly and spoke in wondering tones. "Who are you and where is Harry Potter?"

"Funny."

"You know, Harry Potter, crippled with self-doubt and self-loathing, kissing girls while they cry under mistletoe? I seem to have misplaced him somewhere between seventeen and twenty."

Harry began a laugh and was about to agree when he saw, from the corner of his eye, a familiar car pull up at the front gate. Several owls had been flying ahead of it and now settled on the Burrow's front gate-posts. From the car emerged two figures. One was tall and bony, the other short and round. In near unison, they looked up at the white marquee and rambling Burrow, and then at each other.

Harry put a hand to his head, feeling for his faded lightning scar. Suddenly he could not agree that his old, more tortured self was just a memory – because when he looked at Vernon and Petunia Dursley he felt all the fears and horrors of his childhood come rushing back at him in a nauseous wave.

Ron hadn't seen them. "Hey, did you hear me?"

"I have to go," Harry breathed and was out of the room before Ron could say another word.

Harry seemed to reach the pair in moments. He didn't see Mrs Weasley shepherding guests under the marquee; he didn't see Fleur chase her stumbling Fergus across the yard; all he could see was the family that had never been his family, and the past he'd never asked for. His blood was throbbing fiercely. He tried to compose some kind of righteous speech but nothing came. He stopped perhaps two metres from them, without words, without anything.

"Hello Harry," said Petunia.

The last time he had seen her was before he began his seventh year at Hogwarts. She and Vernon had opened the champagne when he left them. The small glint of guilt in her eyes had been no comfort to Harry.

Since then, she had become an old woman. She was very lined about the face and stood with a slight stoop. He looked at Vernon Dursley, who was the same and silent. He seemed to be clenching his jaw.

"What do you want?" Harry managed.

Petunia glanced at Vernon again. Vernon was clearly pretending not to be in the midst of so much magic (swooping brooms, apparating guests, decoration charms still flying) and avoided her eye.

"You invited us," Petunia said.

"Actually, I didn't. Mrs Weasley did."

"Oh." She pressed her lips together. "Well – we'll go."  
Vernon huffed and mumbled, "About bloody time."

"It's just that we – I came to see you," said Petunia.

Harry almost fell over. Instead, he crossed his arms over his chest.

"Oh yes?"

She narrowed her eyes and he saw the old snappish Petunia in them. "If you didn't want us to come you should have written to un-invite us. We wouldn't have bothered."

"I – was busy."

The truth was, he had thrust all thought of the Dursleys' RSVP to the very back of his mind. He'd rather hoped that if he didn't remember they were coming, maybe they'd forget too. And then with all the drama of recent weeks, he _had _forgotten – and they had come after all.

"Fine," said Petunia, irritation dying in her voice. "I only really came to say a few words and to let you know …" Here she paused and appeared to be struggling to go on.

Harry didn't know what to make of it all. His head was spinning and his eyes were watering, despite all his efforts to stop them. It was seeing them again, like this, as a grown man in his own territory. As he watched her fumble for words, the knowledge that they couldn't hurt him struck him like a blow. They just looked so pathetic: Vernon muttering nothings and practically hugging himself with fear, Petunia all wrinkled and in a dress she'd worn for fifteen years.

"Where's Dudley?" he said shortly.

Petunia swallowed before speaking. "He's dead. He died last year. He was racing cars with his friends and – some sort of drug was involved – he hit a telephone pole. They kept him alive in the hospital for a few days but – we pulled the plug –"

"Oh for God's sake, Petunia!" Vernon interrupted loudly. Several wizards craned their necks to see who had spoken and he lowered his voice to a hiss. "For God's sake. The boy doesn't need to know. He doesn't need to know that."

"Yes he does!" Petunia replied, rather shrilly.

"It's not his business. _He's not ours._"

"Don't you think I know that? Don't you think it hurts me to see _him _doing all this – getting married – _getting older – _while our boy – our boy –" She stopped and breathed. She wasn't crying (perhaps she hadn't any tears left) but it was clearly an effort to compose herself. Harry was reeling. Huge, indestructible Dudley – dead?

"You wouldn't have a clue, Vernon," she said eventually. She turned her desperate gaze upon Harry, who had never felt more confused in his life. He couldn't feel pity. He _couldn't_. Not for Petunia Dursley, the woman who swore never to care for him, who treated him for years with the utmost disdain. But if he couldn't, then what was this sad pressure in his chest? Was it just that in her green eyes he saw his mother?

Vernon looked from his wife to his nephew and then spoke through gritted teeth. "Right. I am getting in the car. I'm driving home. You'd better get in too, before you embarrass yourself."

"We only just got here," Petunia said.

"_Get in the car!_" He threw the passenger door open, sending the gatepost owls into a flurry. "Get in now!"

"I'm not done!"

"PETUNIA!"

"Oi!" Harry heard Charlie's voice and turned – his brother-in-law-to-be was walking towards them, rubbing his knuckles rather dangerously. Behind him was Ron, and behind Ron was Bill, and behind Bill a number of wizards drawn by Vernon's shout. From the marquee, Mrs Weasley was watching with one hand raised, shielding her eyes from the sun like a pirate.

"P-Petunia," Vernon said, attempting to maintain his bravado. "Get in, please."

"I can't," said Petunia. "I'm not ready. You go."

"But – how will you get home?"

"I'll manage."

"But –"

"_I only asked you to come because I can't drive! Get out of here!"  
_Vernon stared at her, white-faced, and then at the wizards surrounding Harry. Within moments he was scrambling for the driver's seat and feeling with trembling hands for the key. He started the car and practically ran it off the driveway in his haste to turn tail. As he drove away, he leaned out the window to shout something. As soon as he showed his face, Bill hexed the moustache off him. The car swerved wildly and then righted itself and increased speed.

"Alright?" said Ron anxiously, a hand on Harry's shoulder.

"Fine," he muttered and looked sideways at Petunia. She was out of breath and rather bug-eyed. He didn't say a word to her until Charlie had shepherded all but Ron away from Harry's general vicinity. The weight of Ron's hand was reassuring and he was glad his best man hadn't left him alone with her.

"Why did you do that?" Harry asked lowly.

"I don't know," said Petunia. She twisted her hands together awkwardly. "I still had something to say and he – he can be unbearable."

Harry didn't bother to agree. He simply waited.

"I'm sorry," Petunia said then.

_I'm sorry. _The words he'd needed for years had just come out of her mouth but he didn't feel anything. It didn't sound quite real.

"For what?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"What are you sorry for?"

"Well – you know."

"I'm not sure I do."

"Easy there," Ron murmured but Harry shrugged him off.

"I'm sorry – about the way we treated you."

"And?"

"The – the way it was for you at our house."

"_And?"_

"Harry, what do you want me to say?"

His eyes were watering again and he brushed a hand across them angrily. He wasn't a boy anymore, he wasn't The Boy at Privet Drive, and he refused to cry. "I want you to say: I'm sorry I didn't love you like I loved Dudley. I'm sorry I locked you in a cupboard. I'm sorry I hated you for being different. I'm sorry I abused your mother and father's memory. I'm sorry I lied and lied and lied to you. I'm sorry I fucked you up so badly."  
Petunia was open-mouthed and speechless. The silence went on so long that Harry thought she might not be able to form a response. But, finally, she gave a slow nod. "Alright. I'm sorry for those things. I already had a son then and now I don't, and I – I'm not making excuses. I just hope you forgive me."

"I don't," said Harry stiffly. "I can't. But stay if you want to."

He spun on his heel and strode back towards the house, leaving Petunia standing alone and aimless in the drive.

Inside, Harry stopped in the middle of the stairs. Ron didn't know what to say. He told Harry he'd wait for him in his room and Harry let him go. He tried to think about what had happened but couldn't. It was too much for this day – it was too much for any day.

He went to Ginny's door and leant against it. He started when he heard her speak, very close.

"Harry?"

"Ginny?"

"What are you doing? I could hear you breathing."

"Sorry."

"It was a little creepy. Hey, don't come in, I'm wearing my dress."

"OK."  
He pressed his forehead to the door. He could near feel her warm body on the other side and his heart slowed a little.

"Are you alright?"

"I don't know."

"You're not – losing your nerve?"

"No!" he said fervently. "No."

"Then what's the matter?"

What _was_ the matter? Everything, when he thought about Petunia Dursely. Nothing, when he thought about his beautiful red-headed girl in the next room. He pictured her hands, her skin, that dress on her familiar body. He pictured her face when he moved to kiss her, the way she closed her eyes.

"What is it, Harry?"

"I love you."

There was a brief silence and then her voice, calm, with the hint of a smile.

"I love you, too."

He felt like he'd just married her. And he stopped thinking about Petunia.

"You're crapping yourself, aren't you?" said a voice in his left ear.

"No."

"You're sweating, right?" said a voice in his right ear.

"No. I'm fine."

Fred and George looked at one another. "Here that?" muttered Fred. "He's fine. Some men, you'd think they _wanted _to commit."

They were all standing at the altar – Harry, Ron and the twins, who had refused to walk down the aisle 'like girls' (their words). Harry felt something of a git in front of so many people, but had otherwise settled into a sort of unearthly composure. All the heat from his morning encounter with the Dursleys had left him feeling clean and sure. Not even the twins could wind him up.

He glanced toward the altar. Mrs Weasley had spent a great deal of time bedecking it in little wild-flowers. Fidelius Rosethorn was standing behind it with his book, rubbing his nose. Harry hoped he wasn't allergic. Fidelius caught him looking and shot him a warm smile.

Harry could suddenly hear music. The crowd turned in their seats and quieted. It was 'Here Comes The Bride', a muggle tune taken up wholeheartedly by the wizarding community for their ceremonies. It was especially appropriate for the dress code Ginny had arranged – the boys were dashing in their suits, and the girls – here came the girls –

Hermione led the way, almost regally, in a red dress. It was the colour of recently picked rose petals and her shoulders were bare and rounded. She smiled excitedly at Harry and then stopped herself, assuming a more solemn expression for the benefit of the congregation. Harry could hear a sharp intake of breath nearby and knew without looking that it was Ron.

Behind Hermione was Jenny, in a similar dress, the same colour but halter-necked. Harry had always thought she was a little uptight, but she looked relaxed and lovely. He wasn't paying much attention to her, though. He was practically craning his neck to see what followed behind.

There was Ginny, a goddess in that dress, her hair pulled softly back from her face, with strands falling out here and there. She wore a long veil, so light as to be almost nonexistent. Through it, he could still see familiar freckles at the base of her neck and a smile that was somehow shy and somehow brave, all at once. She walked on Mr Weasley's arm (he had submitted gleefully to suit-fittings and made quite a handsome picture) right up to the altar, where he released her with a kiss on the cheek and a firm look into Harry's eyes. Harry knew exactly what that look meant and nodded once, reassuringly. Mr Weasley seemed satisfied and took a seat beside his wife, who was already pressing a handkerchief to her mouth.

Ron, Hermione and the rest of the wedding party took a few steps away from the bride and groom as Fidelius opened his book. Harry and Ginny turned toward him. He began a fairly casual welcome as precursor to more formal Celtic vows and Harry seized the opportunity to take Ginny's hand.

"Are you allowed to touch me yet?" she said out of the corner of her mouth.

"Try and stop me," he whispered, rather feverishly.

They looked at one another and grinned the same grin.

The ceremony was a short one. Fidelius spoke about commitment and love and the other things they need to discuss at weddings. Harry felt it washing over him in a wave. He almost didn't hear some of it because he was waiting so carefully for _the _words, the big ones, the lead-up to the vows that had been spoken by couples for thousands of years. It was history, what they were doing – they were making themselves part of history. Harry felt a shiver slide down his spine as Fidelius finally said:

"Now, let these two offer to the world, and to one another, their promises."

Harry and Ginny faced each other, hand-fasted. Once upon a time their hands would have been tied with cloth to symbolise their union, but nowadays the rings would serve that purpose. Before that, they had to speak. Ginny was first and she gave his hand an encouraging squeeze before opening her mouth.

"I vow to you," she said softly, "the first cut of my meat and the first sip of my wine."

He had been worried he wouldn't remember what to say, but it was like the words had been waiting on his tongue for hours.

"From this day," he said, just as quietly, "it shall be only your name I cry out in the night and into your eyes that I smile each morning."

"I shall be a shield for your back, as you are for mine."

"No grievous word shall be spoken about us, for our marriage is sacred between us and no stranger shall hear my grievance."

"You cannot possess me for I belong to myself, but while we both wish it, I give you that which is mine to give."

"You cannot command me for I am a free person, but I shall serve you in those ways you require, and the honeycomb will taste sweeter coming from my hand."

"Above and beyond this, I will cherish and honour you through this life …"

Her voice was a little choked on the word 'life'. He pressed her hands together before finishing: "And into the next."

Fidelius Rosethorn read aloud from his book. "And now speak together the final rites of marriage."

And they did, in near enough to unison:

"Ye are Blood of my Blood, and Bone of my Bone. I give ye my Body, that we Two might be One. I give ye my Spirit, 'til our Life shall be Done."

There was a brief silence. It seemed a lifetime to Harry. He could only look at Ginny and wonder at the things they'd said to each other – such grown up things, Capital Letter things – and hope that every promise they'd made, they'd keep.

"The rings, please."

Strangely grave, the twins stepped forward, each with a silver ring. One was tipped with a little pink diamond. The other was a plain silver band. Harry and Ginny each took a ring, and then a left hand.

"With this ring, I marry you," Harry said and slid the ring onto her fourth finger. It glimmered quietly alongside her engagement ring.

"With this ring, I marry you," Ginny said and gently, gently pushed the ring over his fourth knuckle and onto his finger. Her eyes flickered over his face rather searchingly. He smiled, not quite believing it all; she bit her lip; he smiled even harder and, barely thinking, threw back her veil, leant forward and kissed her.

There was a general 'aww' and cheer from the congregation, while Fidelius fumbled for words. "Oh, it's a bit – you're rather early – alright, kiss the bride."

He _was _kissing her. She smelt like lilies.

Fidelius went on over the loud murmur of the crowd. "I now ask that those gathered here bear witness to the marriage of Ginevra Molly Weasley and Harry James Potter on this 21st of August. May they have a long life together, and all that they need. Harry, Ginny – I pronounce you husband and wife."

The Weasleys were on their feet in the first row and Ron was surreptitiously wiping his eyes and Hermione was beaming fit to burst and the twins were whistling and catcalling as though they'd hit midnight on New Year's.

"Merlin," Ginny whispered against his skin.

"Tell me about it," said Harry. He stroked her cheek, then her belly, and then they turned to face the crowd and walk the long walk out into the sunshine.

They were Mr and Mrs Potter and that true, unshakeable fact was something else. It was something else.

AN/ Whew! Sorry that took me so long, it was a difficult chapter to knock up, especially the bit with the Dursleys. I wanted him to have a little resolution before he embarked on this whole new journey but I didn't want it to put too much of a damper on the day. So forgive me if you thought it was a little too much cheese but I do love a wedding. Please review, I'll be back with the reception and much more drama, so don't go away … buzzing like neon Shezzly PS – The vows they spoke are part of a real Celtic ceremony! Pretty huh? And I finally pulled myself together and called Ginny by her REAL full name (ie. Not Virginia). PPS – It's my birthday! See how much I love you, I'm even writing on my BIRTHDAY. Just thought I'd share that ;) PPPS – TWO MORE SLEEPS TILL HARRY6! xx


	15. Leaving and Receiving

"Oh – Harry, honey – will you just –"

"What? Oh, OK, hold on." She was impatiently flicking a strand of hair out of her eyes – her hands were occupied with the stiff bouquet she'd been given. Harry tucked the strand behind her ear for her. He saw a light flash as he did so and squinted at the wedding photographer.

"Hey!"

"Sorry." The man shrugged, most unapologetically. "You guys look great together."

Ginny suppressed a grin and nudged him. "Hear that?"

"Mm-hm. We're gorgeous."

"I am. You'll do."

"Ha. You're the one who sent the leprechaun, don't forget."

She whacked him with the bouquet. "I can't believe you're bringing up such ancient history!"

"Hey, you married me. Not so ancient."

"Thank your stars I'm –" she dropped her volume just a little, "in a delicate condition, or I'd knock you right over, Potter."

"Oh yeah? Just try me, Potter."

The smile that lit her face was instant and unstoppable. The camera whirred on. Looking at her as she chewed her lip, that strand of hair falling stubbornly across her face, he felt different. For just these few moments, he was going to be completely, uncomplicatedly happy. Let the details catch up with him in a little while – in a few minutes. For now, he was going to look at his wife and that was all.

On the Wedding Side of the house (the twins' words), Weasleys were busy shepherding the guests toward a second marquee. This was the Mingling Marquee (the twins again), which would soon become the Dining Marquee. By the time everyone had finished eating, the first would be cleared for dancing and a makeshift bar. In the meantime, Harry and Ginny were having their photographs taken on the far side of the house, by a little cluster of trees.

In his peripheral vision, Harry saw something moving – some_one_. The figure's familiar straight-backed stride caused him to tear his gaze from Ginny and take a closer look. When he saw the sun glinting on white-blonde hair, he was glad he had. It was Malfoy, walking purposefully _away _from both marquees, broom in hand.

"Do we have enough?" Harry said shortly.

"Huh?" said the photographer, seemingly sunk deep in an artistic trance.

"Enough photos?"

"What's the matter?" asked Ginny. Harry jerked his head towards Malfoy, who now had paused and was scanning the sky.

"Are we done?" he asked again, and this time the photographer did not deign to reply.

He turned to Ginny again. She gave him another smile, smaller. "Go."

"Thank you."

He legged it across the field, suit-tails flying. Malfoy did not notice him until he was quite near, and even when Harry waved did not come towards him. Instead he swung a leg over his broom and waited, rather edgily.

"Hi," Harry called, and lowered his voice as he came closer. "Hi."

"Hello. Congratulations."

"You saw it?"

"I was standing in back."

There was a brief silence as Harry's gaze moved from Malfoy's leg-over-broom to his determined, almost defiant face. "So … what're you doing?"

Malfoy sighed. "You wanted me to come, so I came. And now I'm gone."

"What? But there's the reception, we –"

Malfoy interrupted quickly. "'We' nothing, Potter. That's the whole point. You know they don't want me here."

"Who, the Weasleys?"

"And the rest."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Oh, give it up, will you? I've had enough of this 'poor misunderstood me' shit. You fought on our side in the end and everybody over there knows it."

"They might know it, but they haven't accepted it and they won't."

"Not if you run away from every bloody opportunity to talk to them."

"Hey, I've tried, OK? I also tried to explain things to you, but you wouldn't take no for an answer. I've made plenty of efforts. I've done my best. Look what I got for it."

"You got me."

"And you've got everything," Malfoy said – not bitterly, but patiently, as though explaining things to a child. "You've got a family who loves you and a beautiful wife, and I really don't belong in that picture. I came to placate you, but I'm afraid I can't stay. Like I said, congratulations. I'll see you at work."

He pushed off. His feet barely left the ground before Harry had hold of his immaculate suit.

"Let go," Malfoy commanded irritably.

"No," said Harry. "You know I let you get away with a hell of a lot, but not this time. For once, this isn't about you. This is about Ginny and I. And we want you here. You know what that means? It means you're coming to my wedding reception whether you like it or not. So get off that broom, stand up and face it like a man."

Malfoy stared at him incredulously. It seemed to take him a little while to find words. "Is that – an _order_, Potter?"

Harry squared his shoulders. "Yeah. Yeah, I think it is."

There was another loaded silence. Harry held his eyes ferociously. The Weasleys – and 'the rest' – had to know that Malfoy was a part of Harry's life and that this circumstance wasn't likely to change any time soon. Sneaking around, making excuses, each party pretending the other didn't exist – it wasn't going to cut it. They would just have to take it on the chin. The Weasleys (he crossed his fingers inwardly) were good enough people to understand that Harry wouldn't make such an effort for nothing and that Malfoy, against all odds, had really changed.

Malfoy groaned and dropped the few inches back to earth, shaking off Harry's hand. "Merlin and Morganna," he muttered, and then tucked his broom under his arm. "I'll stay for an hour. Hell, it's your wedding. If you want to see me get beaten to a pulp, then I suppose I'll indulge you."

"That's the spirit," Harry said wryly. It was the best he'd get out of Malfoy, and he knew it. They walked back to the photographer together. Ginny was leaning against a tree and even from a distance he could see she was fed up. He raised his hand to her and she smiled back exasperatedly. The photographer clicked on and on.

"Good thing you bucked up your courage there, lad," Harry said conversationally.

"Oh yes?" said Malfoy, in a voice dripping with sarcasm. "Why's that?"

"I was beginning to think I was back in third year."

"Third year?"

"Sure. Because I haven't seen you so scared since third year, when Hermione decked you with that killer right hook of hers."

"I wouldn't say she _decked _me."

"You ran like she'd decked you."

Malfoy had the good grace to snort back a laugh and by the time they reached Ginny had a polite smile at the ready. Fortunately, so did Ginny.

"Hello there," she said calmly.

"You look lovely."

"Thank you." Her voice went up a few octaves as she frowned at the photographer. "Hey, enough! I've had enough! I've got a reception to go to, you know."

"Just one more ..."

She marched out of the frame before he could take 'just one more' and took hold of Harry's arm in a relieved kind of way.

"You abandoned me," she said lowly.

"I had to."

"I know." She set her smile upon Malfoy again. "Did you hear? We're married."

He pretended to look surprised. "Really? I thought we were here for the christening."

At the word 'christening', Ginny coloured and laughed rather wildly, and Harry fumbled for a change of subject before Malfoy's shrewd gaze noticed the bump in Ginny's stomach to match their awkwardness. His eyes fell upon Mrs Weasley half-running toward them, Ron, Hermione and the twins in her wake.

"Look," he said and they did. Mrs Weasley waved enthusiastically and increased speed. The others fell back somewhat behind her.

"_Oh, you two!" _she shouted, crushing them in a tandem bear hug. "You two looked so beautiful!"

"I looked beautiful, you mean," said Ginny, voice muffled against her mother's best velveteen dress robes. "Harry looked handsome."

"Handsome, beautiful, what's the difference?" She thrust them out of her embrace and held them at arms' length. "My first one," Mrs Weasley said and then repeated it like a prayer. "My first one. Oh, I must be off, Arthur can't possibly man the guest book on his own! Just wanted to be tell you how – how proud I am of you both!"  
She gave them both a peck on the cheek, and Apparated before they could see her tears. Moments later, Ron and the others reached them. Unlike the Weasley matron, they were not so caught up in wedding hysteria that they did not notice Draco Malfoy standing awkwardly behind Harry. The twins stopped in their tracks and glanced meaningfully at one another. Ron and Hermione hovered – the former unwilling, the latter unsure.

Ginny rescued them all.

"Hermione!" she said, eyebrows raised. "Are you going to hug me, or scared you'll get married germs?"

"Oh my _God!_" Hermione squealed, as though she had forgotten. "You're _married._"

With that, she leapt forward to embrace Ginny and exclaim over her dress and her glow, and Ginny took her turn to pay Hermione compliments. This seemed to shake Ron from his immobility, and he hugged his sister while Hermione hugged Harry (just the same as she hugged him when they were kids, forceful and warm). Ron and Harry shook hands, and embraced with manful slaps on the backs.

And then they looked at Malfoy.

Hermione held out a shy hand and said, "Hello." She and Malfoy had never got on, of course; they barely spoke when they visited Harry at Hogwarts. There was something very uncomfortable and unfinished between them. Now, at the sight of a civilly extended hand, Malfoy was quite taken aback. He hesitated just a moment, and then grasped her hand firmly and said: "Hello again" with not one trace of his usual defensive sneer. In fact, he seemed anxious to appear cordial and shook her hand for rather too long.

Ron quickly interrupted.

"Malfoy."

Draco dropped Hermione's hand as though it had become very hot, or very cold. His manner immediately stiffened.

"Weasley."

"Malfoy," repeated the twins, in a fair imitation of their little brother's gruff tones. Draco acknowledged their jest with the barest flicker of a smile.

"Weasleys," he said, inclining his head.

"I invited Draco," Harry said then, in an effort to curb any sudden rude remarks or blows. He wasn't quite sure how to say what he wanted to say _(Please don't bash up my co-worker on my wedding day_) and so stumbled over himself for a while. "And – well, I know you all have a lot of history – we all do, of course – I just mean that – while he's here, at the Burrow, at our wedding –"

"Potter, it's fine," Malfoy muttered, clearly embarrassed. Hermione looked at Ron, who looked at his brothers, who looked at Harry with matching expressions of mock solemnity.

"What I mean to say is …" Harry trailed off and now looked hopefully at GinnyShe seemed to have expected this. Fondly, she touched his chin and then faced her family. "What he means to say is, let's all behave ourselves and try to get along. Right, Harry?"

"Right," he agreed thankfully.

"Right," said Fred. "Except we're off to organise, you know, _something_, and we don't have time to baby-sit any more of your _lovely _guests."

"Guests?" Harry repeated, bewildered, and then remembered Petunia.

"Your muggle's a bit tense," George said breezily, "but not too bad a bird, once we fed her a few Blissful Bonbons."

"Blissful – what?"

"She's lying on Mum's bed," Ron clarified, "pretending to fly."

Harry didn't know whether to be concerned or relieved. He decided, alternatively, to be oblivious. Petunia was not where he wanted his thoughts to be – and now she was out of sight and out of mind, for the time being. He would have liked to thank the twins, but they'd already started for the house at a speedy jog.

"They're fairly ingenious, aren't they?" Malfoy murmured, watching after them. Harry wasn't sure if he was being truthful or polite. He saw Ron eyeing him carefully.

"Yeah," the red-head said at last. "They're alright.

He glanced at Harry and gave him a tiny shrug. Harry understood. Ron might not like Malfoy, but he cared about Harry, and he'd try.

About the twins, he wasn't so sure. They'd had a distinctly sharp gleam in their eye at those words, 'lovely guests'. Harry hoped they weren't going to corner Malfoy when he wasn't around. It'd be just their style to pull a prank like that, and if they did, Malfoy would never dream of admitting it to Harry.

"Don't worry," Ginny said softly, lips against his ear. "He'll be OK."

Funny how she could say it and he believed it. Funny how her hand touching his was such an immediate comfort. Funny how badly he wanted to take her upstairs and to bed.

"Come on, let's eat," said Ron, after a lengthy silence.

"Oh yes!" said Hermione. "They've just put out the tables."

"_My _tables. I did fix every Merlin-cursed leg on them."

"But _I _bought them," Ginny reminded him.

"Let's not go into particulars," Ron said sagely. Hermione laughed and hooked her arm through his. Ron looked absurdly happy and suddenly insensible to the presence of an ex-Slytherin, or the sweet mumblings of his sister and her husband.

And Malfoy walked beside Harry with the beginnings of a real smile on his face.

**ooooo**

The speeches began after the main course and ran right through dessert. Many of the strange friends and relatives invited by Mrs Weasley felt compelled to address words of wisdom to the couple, who took it all with characteristic cordiality and several glasses of mulled wine. Harry hoped they couldn't tell that his ears were closing over. It was becoming more and more difficult not to touch his wife in a _most _inappropriate manner. She kept glancing at him with that hard, glimmering look he knew so well. He stroked her knee under the table and she flushed. His fingers ran up her thigh and she, very reluctantly, pushed it away.

As Grandmother Weasley stood to begin another pronouncement on the virtues of the virgin wife, Harry lay a hand on the back of her neck and pulled her ear close.

"If you don't come with me right now, I swear you're not getting anything tonight."

The fleeting panic in her eyes was enough to set him laughing into his wine glass. Was he drunk? Was it the heady scent of Fred and George's endlessly blooming roses? That was some invention. The flowers somehow, impossibly, maddeningly, smelt very precisely of Ginny's hair after a wash.

Somebody shouted for Grandmother to take a hike. One of Ginny's incapacitated team-mates struggled to his feet and demanded a toast to their quidditch victory.

"Alright," Ginny whispered. "Alright."

Nobody said a word as the bride and groom slipped out. In fact, Harry was sure they hadn't even noticed.

By the time they reached the house, they were moving at a half-run. Harry tugged on the kitchen door handle. It was locked. He swore and charmed it open. Usually the hub of the Burrow, the kitchen was eerily silent. The caterers were operating out of their portable kitchen near the marquee. It didn't matter. All that mattered was the fact that _nobody was looking at them. _

"Harry," Ginny murmured and he was kissing her before he could think of any words. She tasted like the spiced wine and like Ginny, and her hands were already inside his jacket and untucking his shirt.

"Wait," he said, pulling away with an effort, entirely out of breath. "Upstairs."

They went upstairs. It was rather a difficult trip – they were trying to kiss as they climbed and it held them up. Once in the corridor, it was easier. They stumbled along to Ginny's room, but on the threshold Harry stopped her.

"What?"

"Wait," he said again. "Put an arm round my neck. Go on."  
She did so, eyeing him suspiciously. As soon as she had a hold, he swept her up into his arms and she let out a startled peal of laughter. He grinned and told her to shush. She put a hand across her mouth but he knew she was still smiling.

"Are you going to take me inside?" she whispered, her eyes doing that thing they did.

"Yes," said Harry, "like this." He kicked the door. Fortunately it had been left slightly ajar and swung open as dramatically as he'd envisioned. Once inside, he kicked it shut behind them and set Ginny on her feet.

"We're here," she said.

"So we are," he said, and exhaled. "Let me look at you."

She stood up straight and put her hands behind her back. "Well?"

"You're lovely." She pressed herself to him, tugged his jacket off, kissed his mouth and cheek and chin.

"So are you."  
They didn't even make it to the bed and made love against the door, half-dressed. When he thought back on it, they'd been reckless – anybody could have heard them. At the time, he was beyond sense. Here was his wife in his arms, stifling moans into his neck; here was the girl he had fallen in love with one summer, so hard that he still had the bruises; here was the _little _girl in the Basilisk chamber, near death; here was the mother of his child. Here was Ginny, every Ginny he'd known, and here was Harry. Here they were together and it still blew his mind.

When they were done, there were a few moments of breath and silence. Light through the curtained windows was a warm afternoon yellow. Her hair was glowing and a mess. He pulled all her clips out until it went tumbling to her shoulders.

"They'll all know," she said and he shrugged.

"I don't care. They won't. Tell them you got tired of having it up."

"Harry," she said, not for the first time, and leant her head on his chest. He held her there. He didn't want to go back outside, not yet. He wanted to make a memory of this, but couldn't quite get his brain in order.

Two pairs of feet on the stairs forced them into awareness.

"Shh," said Ginny, unnecessarily. He was quiet and listened hard.

"I think it's Fred and Angelina …" Harry said, and she put a finger to her lips. They listened again. It was definitely Angelina, and probably Fred – Harry occasionally still found it hard to tell when the twins weren't together. Of course, if Angie were there, it had to be Fred, and he knew it was once he heard them speak. They seemed to be standing very close, probably at the end of the corridor, a metre or so from Ginny's door.

"Here? How's here for you, Frederick?"

"Merlin, don't get the full name out, Ange. Come on."

Harry nudged Ginny. She shrugged helplessly. It didn't feel quite right to listen, but if they moved they might be discovered, and it would feel worse to have Fred ribbing them to their deathbeds about how they couldn't wait till the wedding night for a shag.

"Angie," Fred was saying now, "I thought we'd sorted this out. I thought we were cool."

"And I thought I understood you. Silly old me, hey?"

"Don't be like that. What did I do? You came back for me, didn't you?"

She groaned. He must have attempted to silence her next words with a kiss, but she wasn't buying it.

"_Don't. _You told me you were sorry. I thought if I went along, you might – you might admit that you – God, but you have to say these things, Fred!"

It was clearly a strain for the twin to keep his voice down. "What things?"

In a manly, mimicking voice, she said: "They're sickening, aren't they? We'll never be like that."

There was a brief silence and a mumbled protest from Fred. "Come on, I didn't mean –"

"You meant Harry and Ginny, and you meant exactly what I think you did. So don't lie to me, Weasley. You know I've always seen right through you."

She took a steadying breath. Harry felt awkward eavesdropping and at the same time very curious about how Fred would respond. He still hadn't said anything and Angelina carried on.

"I thought if I came back and kept my mouth shut for a while, you'd admit you wanted to be with me."

"I do!"

"Not just _be _with me," she said sharply, cutting him off. "I wanted you to want to, you know – all of this – because I want you, and all of it – oh, I don't even know anymore."

Harry had never heard Fred sound quite as worried as he did at that moment. "Ange," he said lowly, "don't you dare fucking break up with me."

"Why not?"

"Because – I love you."

"So you say."

"Hey! I mean it."

"Oh yeah?" She almost spat the words. "Prove it."

She was gone in a sudden rush of feet on the stairs, leaving Fred to linger for almost a minute before descending.

Ginny finally allowed herself to breathe. "That was close."

"And intense. Fred's in trouble."

She plucked at Harry's hair. "Men. Why can't he just admit that she's the one? He knows it. We all know it."

"You're forgetting he's a Weasley boy," Harry pointed out. "It took Ron seven years to admit he even had feelingsfor Hermione."

"True. Well, it's none of our business."

Harry knew she was right. He still couldn't help wanting to pull Fred aside and shake him for a while. Once he confessed, even only to himself, that Angelina was _it_, he'd feel the weight of a Hippogriff lifted from his shoulders. Personal experience had taught him that. And it was Dumbledore who had taught him that love was more important than anything.

Harry wished his old headmaster had lived to see this day – Harry Potter, happy, soliloquising about love. Sirius would have laughed hard and long, and told him he was a lucky man. His father – well, who knew what his father might have said. But he would have been happy too. And his mother would have hugged him and told him to take care of Ginny, just as James had taken care of her.

"What's the matter?" said Ginny quietly.

"Nothing."

"Really." It wasn't a question. She didn't believe him.

"I was just thinking – that I'm going to take care of you." It was a half-truth, but he didn't want her to know he was thinking about the people they'd lost on their wedding day.

Her face softened. She fetched his jacket for him, unbidden, and buttoned it up.

"And I'm going to take care of you."

"Thank Merlin."

They poked their heads out the door to find the corridor deserted and crept back downstairs, only slightly dishevelled.

**ooooo**

A/N –Lots of loose ends to tie up, and I'm trying to get there naturally, without rushing. Sorry it took me a while – I am moving and crazy busy, plus it was my birthday. Thanks for the birthday wishes, by the way :) Of the _Half-Blood Prince_, I will only say that I don't know if I can bear another three years wait. What incontestable genius. So good it kills me … Anyway, thank you for all your lovely reviews and comments and suggestions, they are so appreciated! Keep a lookout for me, a few more chaps in this one yet… S.


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